


lungs filled up with sweetness

by minsyah



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Domestic Fluff, Family Problems, Fluff and Angst, Getting to Know Each Other, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Slow Build, Victor Nikiforov's Past, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-27 20:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minsyah/pseuds/minsyah
Summary: “Does it bother you,” Yuuri asks, eyes downcast, “that I’ll never be able to return your flowers?” He looks so sad, shoulders hunched to make himself seem as small as possible, unable to meet his gaze.Viktor pauses. Perhaps if he had been anyone else—been in love with anyone else—it would be different. But Viktor still vividly remembers the taste of marigolds on his lips, the feeling of thorny vines clawing up his throat until he was doubled over and hacking blood. He imagines what Yuuri must have felt, only fourteen-years-old but drowning in flowers, in love with someone who didn’t even knew he existed. He must have been so frightened, Viktor thinks.“It doesn’t.”Wherein Hanahaki is the physical representation of love and Viktor’s been running from flowers all his life.





	1. warm on a cold night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from [warm on a cold night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX5f0NcqlMs) by honne
> 
> an au where people grow flowers to represent the people they love

Yuuri’s flowers are a curl of baby’s breath around his lips, soft and delicate.

Viktor wakes up still in his suit from last night. His tie hangs crumpled around his neck and his shiny Gabbana dress shoes are more off than on. He doesn’t notice them at first—too blinded by the harsh midday sun streaming through the window as he blearily makes his way to the bathroom, yawning all the way as his bones pop and creak with every step. He’s getting old. Too old to be partying until the wee hours of the morning while running only on adrenaline and alcohol-fueled mistakes. Most days, Viktor’s already in bed by ten o’clock.

He feels significantly more awake after splashing his face with cold water. After a moment’s deliberation, he shucks off his sweaty clothes and leaves them abandoned in a corner of the spacious bathroom. Then he stands, clad only in his underwear, surveying himself in the mirror.

The bags underneath his eyes are dark and puffy, a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. His face is patchy and slightly broken out from forgoing his normal nightly twelve-step skin care routine. He frowns when he finds a particularly red zit hidden in his hairline.

He looks tired. Awful, even. Nothing like what the fifth-time Grand Prix Final Champion should look like. But he’s never felt this light.

Viktor smiles at his reflection, small and crooked and completely different from his practiced picture-perfect smile.

He exits the bathroom with a skip in his step. He’s staying in the Presidential Suite this time—the perks of skating in his home country. The king-sized bed looks particularly massive in the room, piled high with almost a dozen goose-down pillows and a 500-thread count Egyptian cotton duvet that Viktor kind of wants to smuggle home.

He considers the bed for a moment before taking a running start and leaping into the center of the pillow pile.

“W-what—”

It’s like an explosion the moment he sinks into the mattress, something like white confetti rising high into the air. Viktor lies back, dazed, watching the petals rain down on top of him. They gently kiss his forehead and cheeks and lips on their way down, landing lightly on his skin and everywhere around him. It’s a miniature snow storm inside that matches the wintery weather outside.

They’re everywhere—in between the sheets and on the floor and, startled, he even finds a few tucked behind his ears. Thousands of tiny white petals he must have breathed out last night in his sleep. One falls directly on top of his eyelid and Viktor gingerly picks it off with his fingertips before observing it closely.

They’re so small, barely the size of one-fifth of his fingernails. So delicate that they feel like they could disintegrate with a single touch.

He clutches at his bare chest, hand gripping right over his heart. He doesn’t feel a thing but he knows there must be a bouquet blooming inside of him, filling his lungs with sweet fragrance.

Viktor just hopes it won’t suffocate him as well.

* * *

There was once a time when Viktor liked flowers.

He’s only six years old, missing both his front teeth and skinny like a weed. He’s sitting on the kitchen stool, legs so short they dangle what feels like miles away from the floor as he excitedly babbles about his day to his mother.

His mother looks the same in all his memories. The same pale white-blonde hair curling delicately down her back. Her lips pink and curved into a heart. The familiar soft cotton apron laid over her floral print dresses. Perhaps it’s because that’s the way Viktor wants to remember her. When she still smiled and called him ‘ _Vitenka’_  in that gentle, sweet voice. Or maybe it’s because Viktor hasn’t seen in her years, and this is the only impression of her still preserved with stunning clarity.

“—and then! And then, she—Mama! Are you listening to me?” Viktor pouts petulantly up at her and she laughs, the sound like a tinkling bell.

“I am listening,” she says.

“You’re cleaning!” He protests.

She rolls her eyes fondly, teasingly swatting him with the dishrag she’s using to wipe the counter. “I can do both,” she says smartly. Her smile softens. “So, what did your teacher say next?”

Viktor immediately perks up. “And then! And then, she said I had the best drawing in the class! And then—”

Viktor cuts himself off again—this time with a powerful sneeze. A maelstrom of petals shoots out of his mouth and lands on the freshly-cleaned countertop. Viktor shrinks back apologetically but his mother simply laughs before gently sweeping up the petals with her hands, organizing them into neat piles. Viktor watches her silently as seven small piles form nicely in between them.

“Whose are these?” She asks, pointing at the small pile closest to Viktor.

They’re soft pink azaleas, sweet-smelling and curled like a ballerina’s tutu.

“Those are Masha’s! She sits next to me in class. She shared her lunch with me yesterday and then let me use her hairclips!”

“And these?”

Baby-blue carnations. The same color of the bright summer sky.

“Those are Madame Vera’s! She gives me a snack every time I come home from school and lets me pet her dog.”

“And this?”

A tiny sprig of lavender.

“Um, I think those are Anton’s. He’s really nice.”

“What about this one?”

Deep red poppy flowers.

Viktor knots his brow in confusion. “I…don’t know whose those are.”

She smiles as she points to the last pile on the counter. “Whose are these then?”

Viktor pouts. “Mama! Those are yours!”

She giggles, this time bringing a hand to cover her mouth. When she pulls back, there’s a single whole buttercup in the middle of her palm. Viktor watches in wonder as she leans forward and tucks it behind his ear, before softly smoothing the top of his head.

“A buttercup for my buttercup,” she tells him. Viktor coughs up a storm of marigolds directly in her face.

She laughs, bright and cheerful, and Viktor feels his heart warm from the knowledge that  _he_  was the one who caused that sound.

She cups both of her hands around his cheeks, using her thumbs to smooth over the reddening skin. Viktor can’t contain his pleased sigh as he leans into her touch.

“Your heart’s a garden, Vitenka,” she sighs happily. Fondly. Lovingly, perhaps. “Don’t ever change.”

* * *

Yakov is the one who picks him up at the hospital.

It’s mid-April but the weather is still wintery in St. Petersburg, the wind gusting with snowy flurries. Viktor shivers as he’s wheeled out of the main entrance, folding his arms over his bandaged chest.

Yakov’s waiting outside with his broken-down pickup that’s more rust than blue and outfitted with a mismatched set of snow tires. He stiffly greets Viktor before stepping to the side to talk to his stern-faced doctor, their murmurs too indistinct for Viktor to make out.

Viktor lets himself be manhandled into his front seat by his nurse, wincing when the seatbelt brushes against his stitches as she buckles him in.

“Take it easy, kid,” she tells him. He doesn’t remember her name but Viktor’s pretty sure he tried to eat her fluffy hair like cotton candy and she wiped his ass when he was too weak to lift himself. Viktor can somewhat confidently say they’re close at this point. “Your pain meds are some pretty strong stuff so you should rest when you get home.”

“I want ice cream,” he honestly tells her.

The nurse snorts. The mole on her upper lip looks like a button and Viktor wants to press it.

“Tell your grandpa that, kid. I’ll see you in two weeks for your follow-up appointment.”

Viktor doesn’t bother to correct her as she closes the door and gives a brief wave over her shoulder. Yakov’s finished talking to his doctor and slips into the driver’s seat before noisily bringing the engine to life.

“Vitya.”

“I want ice cream.”

Yakov ignores his request as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the street. The radio’s broken—has been for years—so the only sounds Viktor can hear are the car engine rumbling beneath him and the static ringing in his ears.

“Are you alright?”

Viktor looks at Yakov, who’s determinedly staring out the windshield with both hands on the wheel. He’s not wearing his customary hat for once, and Viktor kind of wants to give his growing bald spot a blanket.

“They opened up my entire chest.” Viktor hopes they put his nipples back in the right place (god forbid, what if they forgot to sew them back on  _entirely_?).

“Ah.”

Yakov goes quiet again and Viktor looks back at the window, frowning as he takes in the familiar street sights. “Where are we going?” he asks. “You should’ve turned three blocks ago.”

“You’re staying with me,” Yakov says gruffly, “while you’re recuperating.”

Viktor frowns. “What about Makka?”

“Georgi is taking care of her.”

His frown deepens. “I want Georgi nowhere near my baby. I'll never be able to bring her home with me.”

Last time Georgi dogsat for Viktor, it took almost an hour and an entire bag of bacon strips to coax her away from Georgi’s couch and into the rental car. For days afterward, she would whine and scratch at the door, only calming when Viktor finally acquiesced and put the man on speakerphone, letting his rink mates voice soothe her agitation. Viktor doesn't know what voodoo magic Georgi did to turn Makka against him but he doesn't want a repeat of that ordeal.

“I’ll pick her up tomorrow morning.”

Viktor grumbles but lets it go, not lucid enough to fight back. Soon, they pull into a residential street and then park in Yakov’s driveway. Viktor’s only been to his house a handful of times (“I have to put up with you everywhere else. I need at least one place of peace, Vitya.”). The house is small, only one story, with a crooked roof missing several shingles and chipping paint. They have a neat flowerbed beneath the large windows but their hedges are untrimmed and their lawn is basically a collection of weeds. Viktor doesn’t know why Yakov doesn’t buy a better house. He definitely has the salary to do so but he stubbornly insists on staying in a house that looks like the before picture of a home-makeover show. It’s hard to believe that this is where Yakov lives, where he goes to rest every night. The home he made with his own two hands. Viktor’s always felt like Yakov just lived at the rink, judging by the amount of time the man spends there.

Viktor’s cut off from his musings by the passenger door swinging open and a gust of chilly wind. Yakov’s waiting with an expectant hand stretched out and Viktor takes it shakily as he struggles to extricate himself from his seat belt. He leans heavily into Yakov’s side as he hobbles towards the front door. By the time he’s climbed the porch steps and entered the doorway, he’s doubled over and winded.

Viktor surveys the living room as he toes off his soggy shoes and steps onto the worn carpet. It’s small and cramped with paisley furniture that reminds Viktor of romaine lettuce.

“Your couches are ugly,” he tells Yakov, who merely snorts at the comment.

“Tell that to Lilia,” he says before gesturing down the hallway. “Come. We set up a guest bedroom for you.”

Yakov helps him to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall and onto a lumpy twin bed with mismatched bedsheets. Even though Viktor knows he should freshen up a little, wash out the smell of sickness on him and change into his pajamas, the moment his head hits the pillow he feels the overwhelming need to sleep envelop him. Viktor’s eyes are already drooping when Yakov throws a scratchy blanket over him and clicks the lights off.

It’s only when Yakov’s footsteps are approaching the door that Viktor wills himself to speak.

“Yakov?”

“What is it?”

Viktor’s voice is small as he curls in on himself. “Can you wish me a good night?” Viktor’s eyes are completely closed.

A pause. Viktor’s too embarrassed to see what Yakov’s reaction is. He’s about to take back his request when he feels a hand on the top of his head, solid and warm, like an anchor tethering him to the earth.

“Good night, Vitya.”

The door clicks shut and Viktor tries not to dream.

* * *

By the time Viktor wakes up, the moon’s already gleaming in the hazy night sky, partially hidden by little slivers of gray clouds.

His medication has worn off and his body aches in ways Viktor’s never felt before. It takes all his willpower to stand up and limp out the room and only because his stomach growling insistently at him.

Lilia’s in the kitchen when Viktor stumbles out of the hallway. She’s wearing a fluffy cream robe and has a delicate pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on her pointed nose. Her hair is down for once, dark brown waves resting over her shoulder. Viktor almost doesn’t recognize her at first.

“Vitya.” It’s like she was expecting him. “Sit.”

Viktor sits himself onto one of the kitchen island stools and looks at the placemat set up in front of him. There’s a plate of  _kotleti_  in front of him, with a large helping of mashed potatoes on the side. It’s still steaming and the smell makes his mouth water. Viktor’s stomach grumbles once more and he mechanically picks up his fork and starts to eat. Lilia, standing across from him on the other side of the kitchen island, merely sips at her tea.

After polishing off his plate and two glasses of water in record time, Viktor looks up to the woman.

“Your hair is a lot shorter than I thought it would be,” Viktor notes.

“I just cut it earlier today,” she says.

Viktor purses his lips, glancing down at his own hair. It’s the longest it’s ever been, flowing past his waist and hanging limply around his torso. He looks back up.

“Can you cut mine then?”

Viktor expects her to say no. It’s late—almost past midnight judging by the time on the Cuckoo clock mounted on the wall—and Viktor knows that Lilia has a six am ballet class tomorrow morning. Knows that Lilia doesn’t like superfluous actions or expending any amount of energy on frivolity.

Ten minutes later, Viktor’s seated in the middle of the kitchen with a garbage bag beneath him and a towel draped over his shoulders. Lilia is sharpening a pair of hair shears by the sink, the silver metal glinting in the dim lighting. They remind him of the scalpels on the surgical tray as they brought him to the operating table, the fluorescent lighting above him harsh on his sensitive eyes.

“How much would you like me to take off?” Lilia asks once she deems her scissors sharp enough. “An inch?”

“I want it all off.”

Lilia pauses, arching her brow. Viktor tries not to wilt under the intensity of her gaze. He squares his shoulders and meets her stare head on. Lilia frowns.

“I will not be an accomplice to any of your rash decisions,” she tells him.

It’s quiet between them. The only sounds are the metronomic ticking of the clock and Yakov’s distant snores in the background. Viktor balls his hands into fists from where they’re hidden beneath the towel.

“It aches, Lilia,” Viktor finally admits, voice cracking. He feels the beginnings of tears sting at his eyes and he stubborn blinks them away. “Everyone said I would feel better once it was done but I don’t. They might be gone but I still feel them and it  _hurts_.”

Viktor traces a hand up to his chest, feeling the thick layer of bandages underneath his palm.

“I want to forget,” Viktor says quietly. He meets Lilia’s stare, eyes pleading. “Will you help me?”

Lilia sighs, displeased, but she circles around Viktor until she’s standing behind him. She combs through his hair with her long fingers, gently untangling the long strands.

“I won’t be able to do your hair for competitions anymore,” she says. “How else will you grab the audience’s attention?”

“You can compensate by making my makeup extra heavy this season,” Viktor dryly remarks and it forces out an uncharacteristic snort that Viktor never thought he would hear from the prima ballerina’s mouth.

He feels her take a lock of hair in her nimble fingers—feels the cool press of the metal handle on the back of his neck as she slides the scissors into his hair and wait. He suppresses a shiver.

“Are you sure?” She asks for the last time.

Viktor pauses.

( _“Your hair is so pretty, Vitenka,” she sighs, combing through his silver locks. Viktor leans in happily to her light touch. “You may look like your father but you have my hair. It’s like a piece of me is always with you. You know that, right, Vitenka?”_ )

He closes his eyes. “I’m sure.”

The first cut is like a promise.

* * *

“Are you growing out your hair?”

Viktor jumps at the sudden question, turning his head to meet Yuuri’s inquisitive stare.

It’s one of their rare rest days in the beginning of the season. They’ve taken refuge from the unforgiving Russian cold by staying inside all day, cuddling by the fireplace and breaking their diets with greasy take out and store-bought toaster strudel.

Yuuri had laid down for a nap on the couch after lunch, curled cutely in one of Viktor’s oversized sweaters and the quilt Mama Hiroko made for them before they left for St. Petersburg.

Viktor’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a habit ingrained in him after months of sitting on the onsen floor. He’s leaning back on the couch with a notebook in his lap, taking idle notes on Yuuri’s training regimen and this season’s programs.

Viktor smiles, placing his pen down to smooth out Yuuri’s adorable bed head.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Viktor says. “Did you sleep well?”

Yuuri hums happily, eyes slipping closed as he enjoys Viktor’s hand petting his hair. “S’nice,” he sighs. He opens his eyes lazily, almost like a cat. “What about you? It’s rest day. Leave that for tomorrow.”

Viktor waves him off. “I’m almost done. Give me a minute.”

Yuuri pouts and moves so he’s laying on his side, cheek resting on his open palm.

He’s dangerous like this, Viktor thinks. Yuuri’s hair is sleep-rumpled and the wide neck of his sweater exposes the seductive curve of his collarbone. His glasses are folded on the coffee table in front of them so there’s nothing between Viktor and Yuuri’s dark heady gaze.

Yuuri shifts and his sweater falls to expose a pale shoulder.

Viktor swallows thickly.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Yuuri whines. Viktor’s hypnotized by the way Yuuri’s Adam’s apple bobs when he talks.

“Uh—what was the question again?”

Yuuri huffs out a laugh and uses his free hand to reach forward and tug at the stubby ponytail Viktor’s swept his hair into.

“This,” he says with another insistent tug. “Are you growing out your hair?”

Viktor hums. “Not really? I’ve just been putting off getting a haircut. This is the longest it’s been in years, actually.”

Yuuri nods thoughtfully, this time tugging at the elastic so Viktor’s hair falls to frame his face. The tips of his hair end just slightly beneath his chin—the same length as Yurio’s hair when he had his Senior debut. Yuuri takes a strand of it around his fingers before tucking it behind his ear.

“Well, do you want to grow it out?” 

Notebook now abandoned, Viktor leans back completely to get a closer view of Yuuri’s face. He’s laying completely on his front now, cheeks smushed against the couch cushion and he looks impossibly soft as he blinks up at Viktor with his doe eyes.

“I guess I never really thought about it,” Viktor admits. “I’ve had it short for so long. It’s habit to keep it this length now.”

Yuuri puffs his cheeks out with a silent exhale. He reaches out to Viktor once again, entranced by how silky his hair is in between his fingers. Viktor indulges him, leaning closer.

“Why did you cut your hair in the first place?” Yuuri quietly asks.

Viktor turns so his entire body is facing the couch now. He folds his arms on the edge of the couch and rests his head on top of them so he’s eye level with Yuuri. They’re so close that Viktor can see the mole hidden in Yuuri’s left eyebrow, at the flecks of gold hidden in the depths of Yuuri’s brown eyes. He smiles at Viktor’s change in position, breathtaking and beautiful.

Viktor’s voice is soft as he talks. “I was impatient, now that I think about it. At the time, I was so desperate to change myself and I got scared when I felt it wasn't happening fast enough. So, I decided to take matters in my own hand and ended up cutting it all off. Silly, right?”

Yuuri frowns, using his pointer finger to smooth out the worry between Viktor’s brows. “It’s not silly,” he tells him. Viktor shrugs half-heartedly.

“I was so surprised when you cut it,” Yuuri admits. “There was no news from you during the entire off season and suddenly you show up to the Trophee de France with short hair and a short program about lust. I wasn’t sure if I should be sad or turned on.”

Viktor huffs out a laugh directly into Yuuri’s face, feeling tiny petals come up from his chest. He’s unable to keep the corner of his mouth from turning up. Yuuri smiles at the small victory.

“And what did you end up deciding to do?” Viktor asks.

“I cried for ten minutes and then popped a boner when you finished your short program.”

“Oh,  _babe_. For me?” Viktor asks, voice dropped to a simper, and Yuuri rolls his eyes and shoves him lightly.

Viktor lowers his voice, lips curling into a smirk. “And then what did you do after that?”

“No comment.”

Viktor throws his head back and lets out a loud and ringing laugh. Yuuri pouts childishly at him, a deep red flush disappearing down his neck and into his sweater.

“I love you,” Viktor says breathlessly.

Yuuri presses his lips together and pretends to think. “Hmm…I don’t know…”

“Yuuri!”

He laughs, smile fond as he pats at Viktor’s pouting cheeks. “I’m just teasing. Of course, I love you.”

The two share a tender smile, reveling in the quiet domesticity of the moment. Viktor’s the one who speaks next.

“Maybe I’ll grow it out,” Viktor muses. “Just to see what it will look like.”

Yuuri smiles and outstretches his arms. Viktor doesn’t hesitate to climb onto the couch next to him and hold Yuuri close. “I can’t wait,” Yuuri tells him.

* * *

Yuuri doesn’t call, so Viktor doesn’t either.

It’s not like he could anyway. Yuuri disappeared from Sochi leaving only champagne stains on his suit pants, the beginnings of a hickey forming on his neck, and breaths of flowers blooming deep in his chest.

Still, Viktor can’t help but follow all Yuuri’s social media despite how bare-bones it is. His Twitter consists only of retweets from official sports accounts and a few rare tweets in Japanese that are incomprehensible after being fed through an online translator. His Instagram has almost 200k followers but his only post is a heavily filtered photo of a view outside an airplane window.

He sets a Google Alert for his name, disappointed when all he gets are the occasional notifications from figure skating sites recapping this season’s standings.

The only news he gets about Yuuri come from the man’s rink mate, a young Thai Skater who posts at least several times a day. He sees glimpses of Yuuri’s everyday life through these photos. Yuuri’s hands folded neatly on a table when Phichit takes a picture of their meal. Yuuri’s adorable bed head, hair like a bird’s nest in the background as the Thai teen snaps a morning selfie. Yuuri, eyes shut and mouth open mid-laugh, the sunlight streaming onto his face and making Viktor’s chest feel impossibly full.

Viktor pretends he doesn’t screenshot every photo and keep it in a private folder on his phone.

Yakov must notice the difference in his skating as well. The lead into Russian Nationals feels like a blur with long hours of grueling practice, but Viktor’s never felt so driven. Yakov watches on, silent but approving. Viktor knows his coach must be hoping that he’ll take back what he said last off-season, when Viktor admitted that he didn’t want to compete anymore. Viktor doesn’t know yet. Right now, he just wants to skate.

Viktor wins Nationals. Yuuri loses his and disappears off the face of the earth.

Viktor watches Yuuri’s free skate on his phone, wincing at every missed cue and painful fall. The moment directly after the music ends is the worse. The look of absolute disappointment on his face as Yuuri drops his final pose and trudges off the ice. The way his shoulders hunch as he ignores the pitying applause from the audience. Viktor has to exit out of the video just as Yuuri’s scores are announced and his face falls even further.

Yuuri’s season is over now. He won’t be at 4C this year, much less Worlds. Viktor won’t see him until next season, at the earliest.

Viktor doesn’t want to come back next season.

This year, Worlds is in Tokyo and Viktor feels emptier than ever. Everything feels the same at this point. The photographers frantically yelling to get his photo. The excited fans screaming his name. Viktor wins another gold medal that will just end up in a dust trophy case in his barren studio apartment. The moment he comes down from the podium, flower bouquet clutched loosely in his hand and neck weighed down by gold, Yakov understands immediately.

“Are you sure?” Yakov asks as he hands Viktor his team jacket.

“I’m sure,” Viktor says after he slips it on. Yuri’s there, too. He’s dressed in casual clothes with a lanyard around his neck, the junior competition having already finished the night before. There must be something in Viktor’s expression because the teen says nothing as Yakov herds them to the backstage place, merely glancing at him in what could only be described as concern.

Viktor feels bad sometimes. Yakov had meant for Viktor to mentor Yuri—one of the reasons he was so adamant for them to practice together. He wanted Yuri to take on the mantle of a champion once Viktor was gone, to carry their nation’s pride on his small shoulders. Instead, Yuri’s there to see him crash and burn, to witness firsthand Viktor’s resolve to skate crumple like paper. Viktor isn’t someone people should look up to and Yuri must see that by now.

He forgoes the banquet this time around, curling up in a too-big bed with all the curtains closed. It’s been four months since his heart has been full of flowers, the first time in years. To taste the sweetness on his tongue and feel the petals flutter in his lungs with every breath.

He’s waiting for it to change. Perhaps expecting it. For thorny vines to sprout and choke him, to feel the flowers rot in his lungs. Yuuri hasn’t reached out since Sochi but the flowers are still gentle inside of him, soft and sweet.

Viktor tries not to delude himself into thinking it means anything.

* * *

Yakov seems to have a sixth sense for whenever Viktor’s doing something he shouldn’t because Viktor’s only just cracked open his second bottle of vodka when the older man uses his spare key to pry open the door to Viktor’s studio apartment.

There, Viktor sits cross-legged only in his underwear, a bottle of Stolichnaya raised to his lips. His eyes widen as the stern man appears.

Yakov’s face purples immediately. “VIKTOR MIKHAIL NIKIFOROV.”

Viktor dribbles half the bottle down his bare chest. In three long strides, Yakov crosses the living room to wrench the glass bottle out of his hands and angrily slam it on the nearby coffee table. Viktor’s surprised that the bottle doesn’t break from the force.

“You stupid boy,” Yakov barks out. He has Viktor’s wrist in a vice-like grip as he yanks Viktor to his feet and drags him down the hallway. “Drinking like that? In this weather? Where are your clothes, boy?”

Viktor doesn’t respond. He’s too focused on making sure his feet don’t stumble over each other as Yakov bursts through the bathroom door and shoves him into the shower.

It’s not until Yakov turns on the water and Viktor feels the water stinging like bullets against his bare back that he realizes how freezing he is.

Viktor lets out a shuddering gasp and hugs his knees to his chest to ease the tremors wracking his body. Yakov’s seated on the closed toilet seat next to the shower, arms crossed and a deep frown marring his face.

“You stupid boy,” Yakov says again, this time resigned and accompanied with a long sigh. “What were you thinking?”

He wasn’t. He’s too ashamed to even look up to see Yakov’s disappointed face. He keeps his head bowed, feeling the scorching water run down his face and dissipate the chill that’s seeped into his bones. Yakov sighs once more.

“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come?” Yakov asks. “What if you had passed out? Your floors are wood, Vitya. You would’ve frozen to death.”

“I wasn’t going to drink that much,” Viktor mumbles quietly. His weak protest dies on his lips as Yakov glares furiously back at him.

After ten minutes underneath the showerhead, Yakov deems him warmed up enough and turns off the water. He throws a towel into Viktor’s lap and Viktor uses it to roughly dry his hair before draping it around his shoulders like a cape.

“Yakov?”

His coach grunts in acknowledgment. Viktor stares at the faucet in front of them, mesmerized by the steady drip of water falling into the drain.

“I don’t want to compete anymore.”

It feels good, to finally say it out loud. It’s like a crushing weight has been lifted off his chest and Viktor can finally breathe.

Yakov grumbles, displeased.

“We’ll talk about this when you’re sober,” he says. Viktor doesn’t feel drunk. In fact, his mind feels stunningly clear in this moment.

“I’ll skate this season,” Viktor continues. “We’ve prepared too much this season to let it go to waste. I’ll skate for one more year, but that’s it.”

Viktor looks up and meets Yakov’s tired gaze.

“I’m done.”

Yakov’s jaw tightens and he looks like he wants to argue before he eventually shakes his head and sighs. “We’ll talk about this later,” Yakov warns him before getting to his feet and offering a hand to the still-seated Viktor. Viktor takes it and shakily stands up, careful not to slip as he steps over the tub wall and onto the plush bathmat.

“Come,” Yakov says resignedly. He looks so tired, aged. Viktor feels bad because he knows he’s partly the reason why. “I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten something.”

Viktor, like a child, dutifully follows him out of the bathroom.

* * *

Viktor doesn’t know much about his father. He knows his first name, but only because it’s Viktor’s middle name as well. He knows his father’s job requires him to travel frequently, which is why he’s rarely at home, but he’s not sure of what he does or even where he is most days.

He knows the color of his eyes. He doesn’t really remember the details of his father’s appearance, like his features or his hair color. He only knows they’re blue because that’s what his mother used to tell him all the time.

“So blue,” she would sigh, pinching his nose until Viktor is nasally whining for her to let it go. “Just like your father.”

If there’s one thing Viktor does know, it’s his flowers.

His mother doesn’t cough them up often but sometimes Viktor will catch a glimpse of them. When she gets off the phone with him after months of no contact. When she’s dusting the family pictures and lovingly cleans their silver-framed wedding pictures.

Roses. Deep red roses with petals the size of Viktor’s palm. Big and beautiful. Viktor’s only seen roses like that on television, in grandeur romance movies when the male lead shows up at the heroine’s house with a bouquet of roses and a declaration of love. Viktor’s mother doesn’t need a store-bought bouquet—she has an entire rose garden inside her chest.

It’s Viktor’s 12th birthday—his first birthday since he started professionally skating—and he’s eagerly waiting in the living room as Christmas specials play softly on the television in the background. After a hearty meal of Viktor’s favorite foods, all that’s left is his birthday cake. Mama paid Baba Nonna from down the street to make it. A fresh crème cake with juicy strawberries Viktor picked out from the market himself. His mother even paid her extra to draw a pair of ice skates in chocolate syrup. Her grandson is meant to drop it off after dinner so Viktor’s practically salivating on the couch as he waits for him to arrive.

There’s a quiet knock on the front door and Viktor shoots up to his feet like a spring toy and dashes to the foyer.

“Vitya? Can you get the door?” His mother calls out from the kitchen where she’s cleaning up. Viktor’s already excitedly opening the door even before she’s finished her sentence.

“Mister Igor! Do you have my—oh.”

“Viktor?” His mother calls out confusedly. She’s walking down the hallway to the main entrance, drying her hands with a dish rag. ”What are you doing? Invite him inside. It’s cold out.”

“Hello,  _milaya_.”

His father is standing awkwardly in the doorway. There’s a cardboard box tucked under one arm and a messenger bag slung over the other. His face is scruffy but his hair is neatly combed and he’s thrown a nice jacket over a stained flannel.

His eyes glint like crystals underneath the porch light.

Viktor opens the door fully and lets the man step inside and place the box on the floor. He brushes the snow off his shoulders before toeing off his soggy shoes and slipping his gloves off.

“Misha,” she breathes out. She’s standing very still as if she can’t believe he’s here. Viktor unconsciously steps back and folds his hands together. “I thought you couldn’t make it home.”

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and avoids her awed gaze. “Our project finished earlier than expected. I wanted to surprise you,” he says.

He turns to Viktor and the boy jolts at suddenly having the older man’s attention trained solely on him. He pats Viktor’s shoulder twice, hands heavy and unfamiliar.

“Happy birthday, Viktor,” he wishes him gruffly.

Viktor nods once, eyes trained on the floor. “A-ah. Thank you…” At least his father looks as awkward as he feels. He gestures to the box on the floor.

“Would you like to open your present?”

Viktor eyes it warily as he edges closer to it. He sticks out a hesitant hand to touch the top and he doesn’t open the box as much as it opens itself. He’s bowled over by a wriggling mass of brown fur with a satin red ribbon tied around its neck.

“A poodle?” Viktor acts incredulously. He’s half-sprawled on the floor with the poodle excitedly running across his chest and stomach, nosing at his cheek with her wet snout. She licks at his mouth and Viktor laughs.

His father smiles kindly. “She’s only a month old. She hasn’t been named yet, either.”

Viktor smiles in wonder as he gently takes her head into his hand and scratches underneath her chin. Her pink tongue lolls out the side of her mouth in contentment and his giggle reverberates throughout the room.

The moment’s interrupted by a quiet sniffle. Worriedly, Viktor looks up.

His mother is still standing there, with a silent stream of tears going down her face. She’s clutching a hand to her mouth as she stares unblinkingly at the pair.

“M-mama?” Viktor asks. She hiccups, a shudder passing through her body and a torrent of rose petals fallings from her lips.

Now that she’s started, it’s like she can’t stop. She’s almost doubled over, gagging and wheezing as an endless stream of flowers escapes her mouth. Viktor’s never been frightened of flowers before but he can’t help but scared now. His body is frozen as he watches his mother choke and face redden as petal after petal cascades down in a waterfall of red.

His father steps forward and lays a single hand on her shoulder. Immediately she quiets, only giving an occasional hiccup as she sniffs and wipes her tears with the back of her hand.

“What are you doing?” He chides her. He picks up one of the petals caught on her apron and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. “Why are you crying? You’re so silly.”

His mother hiccups a laugh and a whole rose falls out. His father catches it before it falls and cradles it in his hand as if it was something precious that needed to be taken care of.

Viktor feels like an intruder, still laying on the floor as he watches his parents get lost in their own world. In their own universe. He hugs his new friend closer to his chest, smiling when she licks at his cheek, and wonders if he’ll ever find a love like that.

* * *

It was a mistake to come here, Viktor thinks.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking when he booked a one-way plane ticket to Fukuoka, probably wasn’t thinking if he remembers what Yakov told him on his way to the airport. Yet he’s here, in a country where he doesn’t speak the language, staying in the home of a man he’s not even sure wants him here.

It’s snowing outside. It reminds him of Russia. He came here to leave that place behind.

Yuuri’s elder sister, Mari, comes into the main room with a tub of unwashed dishes in her arms. Her lips curl in distaste when she spots Viktor hunched over the  _kotatsu_. He wonders if he broke some sort of Japanese social norm he wasn’t aware of and gravely offended her because she’s been looking at him like that ever since she checked him in for an ‘indefinite’ stay.

Viktor guesses he must look really pitiful because she eventually sighs and gestures to one of the side hallways with her head.

“Third door on the right,” she tells him. “Don’t forget to knock.”

Viktor quietly thanks her as he slides out of the warmth of the heated blanket and climbs to his feet. She rolls her eyes at him before continuing towards the kitchen.

Remembering her words, he knocks twice, hesitantly, on the wooden frame and hears Yuuri’s soft voice call out something in Japanese. Viktor hopes it means ‘come in’ as he awkwardly opens the door and peeks his head inside.

“Yuuri?”

The Japanese man startles at the sudden call of his name, turning from where he’s sitting at his desk. He has his laptop open in front of him and Viktor sees what he thinks is a messenger window before Yuuri snaps the lid closed.

“V-Viktor!” Yuuri exclaims. He glances nervously at everything except Viktor. Viktor knew it was a bad idea to greet him naked inside the hot springs. This is the last time he’s ever asking Georgi for advice. “How was your bath?”

Viktor fiddles with the front tie of the green robe the inn lent him. “It was good. Is it alright if I come in?”

After a few moments of gut-wrenching silence, Yuuri hesitantly nods and Viktor enters gratefully, closing the door behind him. He’s not comfortable enough to sit on the bed so he settles on the floor instead, folding his hands neatly in his lap. With Yuuri sitting on the computer chair and towering above him, Viktor kind of feels like a child waiting for a scolding.

Discreetly, he glances around the room. He knows that Yuuri’s spent the past several years training in America but his childhood bedroom looks surprisingly bare. There’s a few comic books on the windowsill and a small video game console tucked in the corner but not much else. It’s empty. Viktor looks at the empty walls and if he squints, he thinks he can see the faint impressions of posters once put up. Viktor wonders what they were.

He turns his attention back to Yuuri.

It’s hard to believe this man in front of him, the one quietly fidgeting and desperate to avoid any sort of eye contact, is the same one who danced into his life, whispered sweet promises into his skin, and disappeared into the night with Viktor’s whole heart beating in his hand.

For once, Viktor’s at a loss for words. He’s struggling to figure out what to say—words tumbling around in his mouth but none of them coming out properly. Surprisingly, Yuuri is the one who speaks first.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” He asks hesitantly. His hands are restlessly fumbling in his lap but he’s staring at Viktor with determined eyes. Awed, Viktor nods.

It might not be what Viktor expected when he made up his mind and decided to come here, but it’s a start.

* * *

His mother is the one who takes him ice skating for the first time. He doesn’t initially want to go, stubbornly resisting his mother’s attempts to herd him into their rarely used minivan.

“I’m not giving up,” his mother calls outs from where she’s standing in the living room. “You have to do some sort of sport, Vitya. I’m not going to let you waste away eating popcorn and watching cartoons every day.”

Viktor, who’s currently crammed into the top shelf of the linen cabinet, huffs quietly and ignores his mother’s calls.

She finds him an hour-and-a-half later but only because Viktor fell asleep and his snores gave him away.

“I’m not giving up,” she tells him again as she helps him down from the top shelf. Viktor scowls, still bruised from when she took him to a youth rugby practice the day before.

“Well I’m not either,” he tells her, sticking his tongue out childishly before squealing and ducking away when she pretends to pounce on him.

He manages to avoid it for the rest of the week until his mother ambushes him when she picks him up from school after a day of heavy rain.

He knows something is wrong the moment she locks the door the moment he steps in the car. He tries to open it—scowling when he realizes it’s child-locked. He’s ten years old. He’s not a  _child_  anymore.

His mother smiles victoriously as she pulls out of the school driveway. “Buckle up, Vitya. We’re going to the rink.”

She has an iron grip on his shoulders as she pushes him through the parking lot, snapping at him when Viktor refuses to lift his feet and scuffs his shoes. He rolls his eyes and makes a show of lifting his feet as he stomps inside and she rolls her eyes as well, following behind him.

The rink is relatively empty for a Friday afternoon, with only a few people doing some slow laps around the rink. Viktor shivers at the sudden chill as his mother steers him towards the rental desk and starts up a conversation with the bored teen on duty.

The girl drops down a chunky pair of smelly hockey skates onto the counter and Viktor wrinkles his nose distastefully. His mother sees the look on his face because she laughs and asks the girl if he could get figure skating skates instead.

These ones are much nicer. Black and sleek with dark gray laces. His mother drags him to the nearby bleachers and in record time, she has her own white skates laced up tightly. Viktor still can’t even fit his foot in one of them.

“You have to loosen them,” she chides him with a click of the tongue. She kneels down, wobbling on her skates, and gently loosens the laces before guiding Viktor’s foot inside and lacing him up. He feels a bit bad for being so bratty at her as he watches her tie his skates tightly.

He’s clutching his mother’s hand as they penguin waddle to the rink entrance. While she is relatively stable when she steps on the ice, Viktor is like a newborn deer, legs shaking. The only reason he doesn’t completely fall flat on his back is the death grip he has on his mother’s hand.

He’s not skating as much his mother is holding him and dragging him across the rink. She laughs when she glances down and sees the look of absolute terror on his face.

“You should at least try to skate,” she tells him and moves to let go of his hand. Viktor lunges forward and clutches her entire arm to his chest, yelping when he almost falls in his haste. She laughs.

“This is fine,” he tells her. “I am okay.”

This is not fine. He is not okay. He trips on his toe pick when he gets too confident and tries to skate by himself, and his mother has to beg him not to leave when she snorts out a laugh instead of helping him up.

Despite the fall, it’s actually not bad. Much better than rugby (and football and baseball and track and all the other sports she’s made him try in the past month). Viktor could almost say he enjoys it when he finally relaxes enough to move his feet in tiny baby steps.

They’re taking a rest at the side of the rink, leaning on the rink boards. Viktor still hasn’t let go of his mother’s hand, stubbornly clinging on despite how sweaty it is between them. More people have gotten on the ice since they’ve arrived. Now it’s not only idle couples and a few groups of teens but some boys around Viktor’s age in hockey gear boisterously racing each other around the rink, jeering the whole time.

His mother nudges at him with her elbow. “Why don’t you join them?” His nose immediately wrinkles in distaste.

“I’m not a  _hooligan_ ,” Viktor whispers disgustedly.

His mother laughs and doesn’t push it any further.

A girl takes the ice shortly afterwards. Her dark brown curls are tied in a high ponytail and a flowy black skirt that reminds him of a raven’s wing. He can tell she’s different the moment she steps on the ice. She skates effortlessly to the middle to the rink, arms raised like a ballerina, and suddenly she’s spinning, turning at blinding speed, ponytail whipping around her.

“She’s dancing,” Viktor whispers and his mother follows his gaze and smiles at the look of wonderment that’s taken over his face.

“You could do that too,” she encourages him, “if you want.” Viktor pauses and considers her words. His mother moves forward and gestures for them to continue skating. Mind made up, he follows her without any hesitation, eyes burning in determination.

Viktor lets go of his mother’s hand on their third lap, stumbling in his borrowed skates and eventually, he’ll learn how to soar.

* * *

Yuuri’s been avoiding him.

It’s been a week since Yurio left and the Onsen on Ice event. A week since Viktor and Yuuri officially became coach and student. A week since Yuuri found his own flowers escaping Viktor’s mouth and hasn’t looked at him properly since.

Viktor can count the number of times he’s properly spoken to Yuuri this week on one hand and he’s getting annoyed at this point.

He stomps into the onsen after another failed training session, Yuuri standing him up for the nth time. Mari’s lounging on the outdoor deck, leaning on the pillar while taking slowly drags of her cigarette. She lazily waves at Viktor when he passes her.

“He’s hiding underneath his covers,” Mari tells him and Viktor nods in thanks.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time, instead slamming the door open and watching the lump on the bed jump in surprise before curling in even further. He leans over the bed, wrenching the comforter aside with a false, cheery smile.

“Yuuri!” He croons. The man is staring at him mouth agape, blue glasses crooked on his face. “Let’s go to the beach!”

Somehow, Yuuri agrees and the two of them, with an eager Makkachin in tow, head down to the shore. It’s not the best day for it. The sky is grey and angry, the winds howling over the waves. The tide pounces angrily on the shore like a predator grown weary of stalking its prey. There’s a pervasive chill in the air and Viktor wishes he grabbed a warmer jacket before leaving, settling for crossing his arms in front of his chest.

They eventually sit down on a piece of driftwood almost a foot apart, watching Makkachin happily frolic amongst the seabirds. Yuuri’s hands are in his lap, fingers fidgeting in fumbling circles. He’s avoiding Viktor’s eyes, finding the intensity of his stare unnerving.

“Are you avoiding me?” Viktor eventually sighs.

“N-no!” Yuuri says, almost jumping out of his seat. Viktor levels a deadpan look at him and the Japanese man shrinks back. “Well, I didn’t  _mean_  to avoid you…”

Yuuri sighs, face falling as he brings up his knees and hugs them to his chest.

“They’re mine, right?” Yuuri asks quietly, eyes trained on the rolling clouds in the distance. “Those flowers?”

Viktor lets out a deep breath, feeling the tiny petals flutter as he exhales slowly. “Yeah,” Viktor admits lamely. Yuuri flinches, as if he had been physically struck, before curling in on himself even more.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers and Viktor lets out a disbelieving laugh at his apology.

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Viktor asks with a shake of the head. Yuuri has nothing to be sorry about. Viktor is the one who fell first, whole-heartedly and without any warning. He’s the one who chased Yuuri half around the world, who barged into his life and refused to leave. If anything, Viktor should be the one to apologize.

“Does it bother you?” Viktor asks sadly. He never expected Yuuri to return his feelings—the months of waiting and pining for him yet without any single contact is proof enough. But to hear it out loud, to know that his feelings are making Yuuri uncomfortable. It’s almost too much to bear. Yuuri must see the crestfallen expression that creeps onto his coach’s face because he immediately stumbles over his words to comfort him.

“It doesn’t,” Yuuri insists with a fervent shake of head. Viktor looks at him disbelievingly. Yuuri presses his lips together before eventually sighing, slumping forward.

“It’s me,” Yuuri explains quietly. Viktor almost doesn’t hear him at first, his words getting lost in the whistling wind. Unconsciously, Viktor leans forward, eyes stormy like the ocean before them.

“Does it bother you,” Yuuri asks instead, eyes downcast, “that I’ll never be able to return your flowers?” He looks so sad, shoulders hunched to make himself seem as small as possible, unable to meet his gaze.

Viktor pauses. Perhaps if he had been anyone else—been in love with anyone else—it would be different. But Viktor still vividly remembers the taste of marigolds on his lips, the feeling of thorny vines clawing up his throat until he was doubled over and hacking blood. He imagines what Yuuri must have felt, only fourteen-years-old but drowning in flowers, in love with someone who didn’t even know he existed. He must have been so frightened, Viktor thinks.

“It doesn’t.”

Yuuri doesn’t look like he believes him but there’s nothing else Viktor could say at this point. He tries to convey utmost sincerity in his expression but Yuuri refuses to even look him in the eye. Viktor decides to drop the conversation with a heavy heart.

Yuuri’s still a mystery to him. In the past month Viktor’s spent with Yuuri, the two have gotten much closer than Viktor could have ever hoped as they slowly get to know one another and become comfortable in each other’s presence. But there are still things that Viktor doesn’t know—secrets that Yuuri keeps close to his heart and far,  _far_ away from Viktor. He can only hope Yuuri will let him in one day in the future.

“What do you want me to be to you?” Viktor asks finally. Yuuri looks grateful at the change of topic before he seriously considers Viktor’s question.

“A friend perhaps?” Viktor offers. “A brother? A father?”

Yuuri doesn’t look pleased with any of these suggestions. Viktor swallows thickly, licking his dry lips. “If not those, a lover?”

“No!” Yuuri looks horrified at the suggestion and Viktor flinches at the complete and utter rejection.

“You don’t have to do anything like that!” Yuuri says. He’s sitting up fully now, leaning towards Viktor with burning eyes. “You just have to be yourself,” Yuuri continues, much quieter. “I don’t want you to be something you’re not. You can just be Viktor. That’s all I want.”

Viktor can’t help but smile at his response. It’s such a Yuuri thing to say and Viktor feels his heart warm when he thinks of how eager Yuuri is to comfort him.

It still hurts. An ache residing deep in his chest, in the same place his flowers bloom beautifully in his heart. Of course only Yuuri would be the person to make him feel such things. To make him feel hurt and love after years of being numb. But for once, Viktor doesn’t want to hide from his feelings. He wants to face them head on, regardless of the outcome. Viktor’s been running for too long and he’s finally found something he wants to hold on to.

“I can do that,” Viktor tells him. Yuuri gives a relieved sigh before looking up from beneath thick lashes and shooting a shy but breathtaking smile at him. Viktor feels his heart momentarily still in his chest before he returns the smile, small but grateful. In front of them, the tiniest glimmer of sun breaks through the dreary clouds, lighting the sea a glimmering blue and warming the chill set deep in their bones.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

* * *

The house may be new but the inside is a perfect replica of Viktor’s childhood home.

It’s strange to walk down these unfamiliar hallways and see remnants of the past. Childhood photos long forgotten, photographs faded from sun exposure and time. The straggly blanket Viktor knitted as a primary school project draped over the wooden rocking chair. The mismatched throw pillows his mother always insisted gave their house character. It should be comforting to be surrounded by all these familiar objects. Instead, Viktor is unsettled.

While the house is familiar, she is not.

His mother looks different. There are wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and in between her eyebrows, as if she had been frowning a lot. Her hair is more grey than white-blonde now, slightly frizzy and curling at the ends. It’s short too, only reaching an inch below her chin. Viktor, who’s spent the last few months growing his hair out, has his reaching the middle of his back.

He’s seated at the scuffed round table in the dining room. His mother joins him shortly, placing a cup of tea in front of him. He quietly thanks her but doesn’t make a motion to grab it. He doesn’t intend to stay that long anyway.

She’s sitting across from him with ankles crossed while taking periodic sips of her own drink. When it’s clear she is not going to start the conversation, Viktor speaks first.

“How are you?” He asks awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” she eventually responds. She takes another sip. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Viktor answers and the conversation dries up from there.

Inwardly, Viktor sighs. There’s no point in beating around the bush. He came here for only one reason and he shouldn’t put it off any longer.

“I’m getting married, Mama.”

She nods slowly. She doesn’t look surprised as she cradles her half-empty tea cup in her palms, staring intently into the dark liquid as if contained the secrets of the universe.

“I’ve heard.”

Viktor frowns at her response. He doesn’t like that she knows. He feels he’s sitting in front of a stranger of a woman yet she seems to know all about his life. He is a public figure, always in the media, but the idea his mother knows things he’s never told her unnerves him.

He bites the inside of his cheek before sighing, looking up and making sure his mother is looking back at him.

“I don’t want you at the wedding.”

Her grip on the cup tightens imperceptibly and her eyes get suspiciously glassy before she blinks slowly and gives Viktor a thin, papery smile.

 “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls excuse any spelling mistakes i've been working on this for so long, I was so sick of reading it LOL
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed it! tbh I was kind of nervous of posting this because I wasn't sure if anyone would be interested and the writings a bit different from my usual style???? Is this something you guys are interested in reading? Idk man lemme know what you think
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr at [pockybugi](http://pockybugi.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> **EDIT:** for those not familiar with Hanahaki AU's
> 
> _The most common version of Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from an unrequited love, where flowers grow in the patient's lungs that represents the person they love. If left untreated, the petals will turn fatal. The only way to remove the flowers is either for the person they love to return their feelings or to get surgery to remove the flowers, which also will remove their feelings for that person._
> 
> My interpretation is slightly different from the normal trope but hopefully, you guys are liking it so far! Let me know on tumblr if you have any other questions or something idk


	2. gone are the days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The DJ starts playing a fast-paced flamenco song and Yuuri pulls him in close so that their chests are pressed flushed together, the tips of their noses almost touching. They’re so close that Viktor can see the light freckles dotting Yuuri’s nose and how deeply brown Yuuri’s eyes are in the dim lighting._
> 
> _“I hope you’re quick on your feet,” Yuuri laughs, giving him a cheeky wink before spinning Viktor round and round and round until he feels like he’s floating, ascending above the earth to dance amongst the glittering stars, sweeping across the Milky Way in this little corner of the universe tethered only by Yuuri's warm hand wrapped around his own._
> 
>   _Yuuri stops to hold Viktor close, hand resting strong and steadfast on his lower back and smiles, so completely and utterly breathtaking that Viktor can’t help but be swept off his feet, heart fluttering desperately in his ribcage._
> 
> Viktor doesn't know much about Yuuri, but if the flowers in his heart don't already prove it, loving him is far, _far_ too easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from [gone are the days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJVdtXeXXEU) by honne
> 
> I realized after posting the first chapter that a lot of people might not have heard of Hanahaki Disease so I added some new notes at the beginning and end of the first chapter so check those out if you want!

On Tuesday, Viktor gets officially photographed with his Olympic medal for the first time, smiling brightly in his Team Russia Jacket with gold glinting on the chest. On Wednesday, Yakov and Lilia’s divorce is finalized.

Viktor shows up to Yakov’s house in the late evening with a paper bag full of piroshky from the stand around the corner and Makkachin sitting faithfully by his side. Yakov opens the door, takes one look at him, and sighs. He reluctantly lets him inside and goes to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea.

While Lilia hasn’t lived in this household for months, she’s only just officially moved out and took all her belongings with her. The trophy case looks empty without all her awards and accolades on the shelves. There are several pieces of artwork missing from the walls— their disappearance made only more prominent by the rusted nails left behind.took the couch as well. Viktor kind of misses it when he looks over the nondescript brown sofa Yakov replaced it with.

She took the couch as well. Viktor kind of misses it when he looks at the nondescript brown sofa Yakov replaced it with.

Yakov’s still in his pajamas despite the sun beginning to set along the horizon. He has a deep blue robe tied tightly around the waist, worn and familiar like a second skin. Viktor hopes he hasn’t been wearing it too much. There’s the slightest bit of scruff on his chin, salt-and-pepper stubble that’s utterly foreign to Viktor.

Viktor, from his perch on the kitchen stool, silently observes Yakov as he puts a kettle on the stove and lumbers around the kitchen.

“How was the photo shoot?” Yakov asks as he grabs two mugs from the cupboard. They’re mismatched and clunky, with fading paint and chips on the rim. Lilia must have taken the matching tea set as well.

“It went alright,” Viktor says with a careless shrug. “They let me pose nude.”

Yakov freezes before whipping around to glare deeply at Viktor. “You better not have,” Yakov warns.

Viktor smiles innocently at him, fluttering his lashes. “I wonder,” he says. As he was leaving, the publicist was contemplating using the photo where Viktor proudly stood completely bare with only his gold medal resting on his chest, smirking dangersouly as the magazine cover.

Yakov sighs, deep and weary, as he takes the kettle off the heat.

“How about you? How was your day?” Viktor asks. “I can’t believe you’re still in your pajamas—it’s almost nighttime, Yakov.”

Yakov rolls his eyes. “What I do on my off day is none of your business.”

Apparently what Viktor does on  _his_  off day is Yakov’s business but Viktor refrains from complaining, instead settling to purse his lips in distaste.

“Here.” Yakov hands Viktor a steaming mug of earl grey tea. Viktor sniffs it warily before Yakov shakes his head at him and passes a half-empty jar of boysenberry jam.

After Viktor fixes the mug to his liking, Yakov speaks up.

“You didn’t have to check on me,” Yakov says gruffly. “I’m over twice your age, Vitya. I don’t need someone to look after at me.”

Viktor frowns, huffing slightly. “Who said I was checking up on you?” Viktor asks, lifting his left hand to carelessly flick at his bangs. “I bought too much piroshky for me to finish on my own and Georgi’s on a date tonight. You’re the one who keeps telling me to cut back on carbs anyway.”

Yakov snorts, hiding his face behind his mug. Viktor smiles innocently at him before leaning forward and resting his face in his hands.

“Are you really okay?” Viktor asks, this time much quieter. “You were married for over thirty years. Aren’t you sad?”

Yakov sighs and gives Viktor a wry smile over his clunky kitchen mug. “Of course I’m sad, Vitya,” Yakov admits, “but it’s not like this happened overnight. Lilia and I had been having problems for years.”

Viktor’s frown deepens. He wonders if they were already having problems when Viktor stayed with them for a year. When Lilia would make them sit down for home-cooked dinners every night and Yakov would look at him with pride as if he was his actual son. Viktor unconsciously hunches his shoulders.

Yakov clears his throat before taking another drink of his tea. Unknowingly, three shriveled petals fall from his mouth and flutter onto the kitchen counter. Viktor scoops them into his palm before Yakov notices.

Viktor always thought Lilia’s flowers suited her. Great white lilies, long and elegant. The perfect flowers for a prima ballerina such as herself. But the petals in his hands are neither great nor elegant. They’re dry and shriveled, with the edges browning and curling slightly. Viktor feels sad looking at them.

“Do you still love her?” Viktor asks softly.

Yakov sighs, letting the question hang between them. “I’ll always love her,” Yakov eventually says. “But love changes. People change. We’re not the same people we were when we first fell in love.”

Viktor rolls them around in his hand, feeling the delicate petals tear underneath his fingertips.

“I don’t ever want to fall in love,” Viktor declares. Yakov lets out a disbelieving snort at Viktor’s statement.

“Love isn’t something you can hide from, Vitya,” Yakov says wisely. “Everyone must love at some point.”

Viktor presses his lips together in deep thought. Yakov hands him a slightly warm potato-and-cheese piroshky and Viktor takes it, letting the petals fall from his hands and to the floor.

Viktor is twenty-five now and he closed his heart years ago.

* * *

Their engagement photos are taken in Russia, as per Yuuri’s suggestion.

Viktor wants to get married in Hasetsu. _In spring_ , Viktor had told Yuuri with stars in his eyes, _underneath the cherry blossoms_. Yuuri was helpless to deny such an earnest request.

Everyone was surprised when they find out it was his idea to have a small wedding. They expected Viktor to demand an extremely lavish wedding, with a guest list a mile long and specially-bred white doves released as they recite their vows followed by a ten-minute firework display before Viktor whisks Yuuri off into the sunset on the back of a handsome steed like a fairytale prince. Yurio even sarcastically suggested that Viktor would want to livestream their entire wedding on his Instagram story so all his 1.4 million followers can watch him make heart-eyes at his piggy.

But Viktor had seen Hiroko’s and Toshiya’s wedding picture on the mantle of the inn, absolutely enchanted by the old and faded photograph. The two of them, young and fresh-faced, are staring lovingly into each other’s eyes with hands clasped tightly together with cherry blossoms swirling gently behind them. Viktor wants that—a tender moment captured and frozen in time, private and only for them. Viktor doesn’t need much. He only wants Yuuri.

They decide to take the photos in Moscow, right after the Rostelecom Cup. Yuuri’s not skating in this event this season but Phichit is. The moment Phichit learned they had set their wedding date, he immediately called Yuuri at three in the morning and demanded he take their engagement photos.

“I will give you the best photos,” Phichit promised as Viktor groggily batted at Yuuri to dim the brightness of his phone. “You two will look stunning.”

Viktor always said that Yuuri deserved a small break after his stunning gold medal finish at the NHK trophy two weeks ago.

They meet Phichit at a rented studio for their first shoot the day after the competition, fresh-faced and beaming after securing silver. The open room is filled with softbox lights and crisp professional backdrops. There’s a team of Russian makeup artists scurrying around the room, fussing over the pair. Phichit is setting up his tripod as he gestures animatedly to the studio techs in an attempt to communicate his artistic vision.

“It’s called beauty ‘sleep’ for a reason _, solnyshko_ ,” Viktor tells a petulant Yuuri as one of the makeup artists fawns over his flawless skin. Another artist is dabbing concealer underneath Yuuri’s eyes, face creased in a frown as she layers product after product on his face. “Not beauty ‘I-stay-up-til-three-am-and-then-pass-out-on-my-keyboard’ sleep.”

“I don’t want to get married anymore,” Yuuri grumbles as the lady brushes a cloud of setting powder onto his face. “This was a mistake. I want out.”

The photos, as Phichit promised, are beautiful. Yuuri and Viktor are dressed in matching suits, Yuuri’s in navy and Viktor in grey. They run through all the traditional engagement photo poses. The two showing off their matching gold bands. Viktor holding Yuuri tenderly from behind, chin resting lightly on the shorter man’s shoulder. Arms wrapped around each other with their foreheads pressed together, so close that Viktor can feel Yuuri’s breath ghost over his lips as they stare deeply into each other’s eyes.

However, Viktor’s favorite photos are the spontaneous ones. When Phichit’s camera captures the moments when their composure breaks and they giggle into each other’s arms, grinning widely. The ones where Viktor steals a kiss when Yuuri isn’t paying attention, ducking away as a flustered Yuuri swats at him. Viktor’s personal favorite is the one where he somehow tripped over his shoelaces and fell to the floor, taking Yuuri down with him. Yuuri is laying on his chest, mid-laugh as Viktor looks up dazedly at him in wonder.

Viktor wants that picture on his—no,  _their—_ mantelpiece.

Phichit cycles through the raw photos on the laptop after they wrap-up the shoot.

“I love them,” Viktor honestly tells him when Phichit stops on the last picture of the set, a picture of Victor picking up a protesting Yuuri in a wobbly bridal carry. Phichit puffs his chest out in pride.

“After I take all the pictures, I’ll let you guys pick out your favorites and I’ll take some time to edit them,” Phichit says. “But they look great, yeah?”

Yuuri looks shocked, staring at the laptop screen with mouth agape. “Thank you, Phichit,” he tells him sincerely. The Thai man blushes as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“You don’t have to say it like that, Yuuri,” Phichit says. He shoots Yuuri a cheeky smile. “I’m your best man. This is nothing. I want to help you have the best wedding you possibly can.”

Yuuri bursts into noisy tears and Phichit flails helplessly around him as Viktor yells at someone to bring them some tissues.

Their outdoor shoot takes place the following day. Phichit somehow ropes Mila, Sara, and Yurio into being his assistants for the shoot so the foursome shows up at Viktor’s Moscow apartment at lunchtime. Viktor greets them as they step inside while Yuuri sets out a plate of cold-cut sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade.

“Yurio!” Viktor exclaims, sweeping the disgruntled teen into a hug. “Look at you! You’re so tall now! Wow!”

“Get off me, old man,” Yurio hisses as he shoves Viktor off and continues into the living room. The teen had a tremendous growth spurt over the summer, growing an incredible five inches seemingly overnight. He’s almost as tall as Viktor now, long with gangly limbs. Yurio’s currently taking the season off, readjusting to his larger body after a clip of him wiping out spectacularly on a long string of quad salchows while swearing up a storm went viral on social media. Mila claims it as her best work, followed by the HD recordings of the Dance Battle™ she took at their first banquet together.

“Viktor!” Phichit cries, appearing from behind them. He’s holding a black garment bag in each hand, pressing the one in his left into Viktor’s chest. “This is for you!”

“What is this?” Viktor asks curiously. He attempts to unzip the bag to look inside—whining when Phichit slaps his hand away.

“No peeking!” Phichit yelps. Viktor’s pouting, rubbing soothing circles onto his stinging hand. “It’s for the shoot today,” Phichit explains.

Viktor cocks his head in confusion. “I thought we decided to just go with our casual clothes?” Viktor’s ensemble, lovingly picked out and neatly ironed, is laying on the foot of their bed in preparation. It would be a shame not to wear such a beautifully coordinated outfit.

Phichit waves off his worries. “Don’t worry—we’re still doing that. But we’re not going to Red Square till sundown. After all, the pictures will come out loads better at night with all the lights and festivities.” He gestures to the bag. “Now _this_.  _This_  is something special.”

Mila suddenly appears at Viktor’s side, grinning up at him as she loops her arm around his. The way her fiery ponytail bobs reminds him of a crackling wildfire and Viktor’s only slightly afraid.

“Come on,” she says, tugging him towards the spare room down the hall. Yuuri’s already being ushered into the master bedroom by a smiling Sara, Phichit following them with the other garment bag. “I’m going to make you  _beautiful_.”

* * *

A lot of people don’t believe him when Viktor names Georgi as his closest friend.

He doesn’t understand why, though. He’s known Georgi longer than anyone. He was the first friend Viktor made when he moved to St. Petersburg at only twelve years old, with only visions of glory and a secondhand pair of ice skates. He was the boy Viktor roomed with for their first few years of training, spending late nights together designing their program costumes with colored pencils and sneaking into the rink after hours to practice jumps Yakov banned them from learning.

Georgi was the one who shared his birthday cake with Viktor the first year he couldn’t go home for the holiday, refusing to leave his side and cuddling up to Viktor in his tiny twin bed until the tears finally slowed.

So, it’s an obvious choice who Viktor first visits the moment he touches down on the tarmac after Sochi.

Georgi swings open the door with a flourish, wearing the ridiculous striped nightgown Viktor bought him from Germany last year as a gag gift and a bright green algae face mask that makes him look like a walking piece of seaweed.

“Viktor!” He cries out happily, greeting Viktor with a tight hug. Makkachin, seated at Viktor’s feet, boofs excitedly. “It seems like the seeds of love has finally bloomed in your heart. Congratulations, good friend!”

Viktor blinks, taken back. Unconsciously, he brings his hand up to his chest. “How did you know?” Viktor asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Georgi responds with a dissatisfied sniff.

“A romantic like me always knows,” he says with a shake of the head before stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Now come in. Madame Svetlana has arisen and she’s doing her daily walk right now.”

Madame Svetlana is Georgi’s pet tortoise. The pet store he adopted her from told him she could be anywhere from sixty to ninety years old. Viktor’s pretty sure Georgi only got her because the markings around her eyes look like smoky purple eyeshadow.

As Makka always does when Viktor brings her over to visit, she immediately bounds over to the elderly tortoise, curiously sniffing at her shell before staying faithfully by the tortoise’s side as Madame Svetlana continues her slow lap of Georgi’s apartment.

 Viktor’s already seated on the couch when Georgi comes back from washing his face, though his skin still has a greenish tinge to it. He settles down next to Viktor, giving his knee a comforting sneeze.

“Something must have happened, yes?” Georgi asks. His eyes soften when he notices Viktor’s troubled expression, and lets Viktor curl into his side and rest his head on Georgi’s shoulders. Viktor’s glad that Georgi is so attuned to his emotions because Viktor feels completely out of his depth. “You left for Sochi so listless and now you come back a changed man.”

Viktor drums his fingers restlessly on his thigh. Georgi is waiting patiently as Viktor struggles to figure out what he wants to say first.

“His name is Yuuri,” Viktor starts, side-eyeing Georgi when the man visibly blanches.

He turns so he’s facing Viktor directly, reaching forward to clasp Viktor’s hands. “Now Viktor,” he whispers, “as your friend, I will always be supportive of your endeavors in love. But our dear Yuri is but a child and I cannot condone interest in someone that young.”

Viktor rolls his eyes, smacking the other man’s hands away. “Not that Yuri,” he sighs. “ _Yuuri_. Yuuri Katsuki.”

Georgi raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Yuuri? The skater from Japan?”

“You know Yuuri?” Viktor asks.

Georgi shakes his head with a small sigh. “Of course I know him,” Georgi says. “After all, he was the reason I was here instead of at Sochi with you this year.”

Viktor winces at the reminder but Georgi shakes him off when Viktor attempts to apologize, instead nodding and gesture for Viktor to continue.

“So, you met Yuuri?”

Viktor nods. “We met at the banquet,” Viktor says quietly. Georgi gives him a knowing smile.

“And he stole your heart then?” Viktor’s expression says everything.

“He didn’t even say goodbye,” Viktor whispers, shoulders dropping as he remembers the morning after. “He just left. I don’t even know his number.”

Georgi pats his arm comfortingly. “A lot happened this weekend, Vitya. He probably had an early flight or other obligations. I’m sure that if you feel this strongly, he must be feeling the same way.”

“I’m scared, Georgi,” Viktor admits. He’s distinctly aware of his lungs, normally empty and clear, are positively overflowing with flowers, of how he can feel them flutter and sway inside with every breath. “I don’t want to get hurt anymore.”

“Oh, Vitya,” Georgi sighs. He opens his arms and Viktor doesn’t hesitate to accept his embrace and allow Georgi to stroke his hair. “If everyone was too afraid of being hurt, no one would love at all. Yet we still love, because love is worth it.”

Viktor tries to believe his words. Tries to believe that love is always worth it. That there’s no reason to be afraid. But Viktor, whose heart has been scarred, can’t believe what Georgi says. Not yet, at least. He can’t believe in love when all he knows is how bright Yuuri’s smile is underneath the chandelier light and how light he felt as they twirled around the dance floor. Love can't only bloom from a brief night like that, even if it was the best night Viktor's had in years.

Georgi smiles sadly down at him. “You deserve love, Viktor,” Georgi says as if he can read Viktor’s thoughts and understand the turmoil raging inside him. “More than anyone else in the world.”

Viktor desperately wants to believe in that too.

* * *

It’s after dinnertime and Viktor is comfortably satisfied after another filling meal, lounging backwards with Makkachin in his lap. Hiroko’s cooking is that of the gods, Viktor thinks as he strokes through Makka’s curly fur.

Across from him, Yuuri and Yurio sit slumped over the low wooden table. Their dinner bowls have only been picked at and remain mostly full. It’s another day of unsuccessful practice, both of them unable to grasp the feeling in their assigned programs, and their continuous failures are finally starting to weigh on them.

“Eat your dinner, Yurio,” Viktor chides him. The teen glares furiously at him before deliberately spearing through a piece of pork katsu with a single chopstick and ripping into it with his teeth. Viktor smiles in return.

“This is bullshit,” Yurio snarls at him. “You’re bullshit. How the fuck am I supposed to skate Agape if you won’t tell me what the fuck it even is?” He slams his hands on the table so forcefully that the dinnerware clatters noisily.

Viktor shrugs, hiding a smile behind a sip of water. “Well, I can definitely say  _that_  isn’t agape,” he remarks, almost laughing out loud when Yurio’s face turns murderous.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. “This is shit—I don’t fucking understand why you didn’t give me Eros instead.” He looks to his side and sneers down at the listless Yuuri. “I  _know_  I could skate Eros better than this loser.”

Viktor frowns at Yurio, stealing a glance past him at Yuuri. For most of dinner Yuuri sat slumped over the table, nibbling sporadically at his katsudon before eventually giving up and staring emptily into space.

He hadn’t expected Yuuri to have such a hard time with this program. After all, Eros was inspired by Yuuri in the first place, dancing passionately in the low light, stealing everyone’s hearts with a smirk before sauntering off with Viktor’s own and disappearing with the morning sun.

Yet, the moment Viktor declared the theme to be love and skated to Agape and Eros, Yuuri immediately froze up and remained quiet for the rest of practice. Despite all their practice, Yuuri’s version of Eros remains disjointed and unsure, nothing like the graceful dancer Viktor knows he is. Every time Viktor offers a suggestion or asks him if he’d like some help, Yuuri immediately clams up before skating off, stammering that he’ll figure it out.

It’s obvious he hasn’t figured it out. He looks completely and utterly defeated. Even Yurio must notice something is wrong because he’s glancing warily at him and lowers his voice to ask, “Hey, Katusdon? You alright?”

Yuuri sighs. His voice is so small that Viktor can barely hear him. “I can’t skate this.”

Immediately, Yurio flushes purple at his statement. He pounces forward, going up onto his knees and grabs the front of Yuuri’s shirt. He’s scowling furiously down at him. “The hell does that mean!?” he demands. Yuuri is staring up at him in shock, hands unconsciously raised in surrender.

Yuuri stammers, “I just meant—”

“Meant what?” Yurio interrupts, eyes blazing. “Meant that you were gonna give up before the competition even starts? Cause if you are, that means you’re even more pathetic than I thought you were!”

“I—”

“Yuuri.”

Simultaneously, the two look up to see a hardfaced Viktor. Immediately, Yurio drops his hold on Yuuri and slouches back into his seat, avoiding Viktor’s eyes but still looking defiant. Viktor’s not paying attention to him though. He’s focused solely on Yuuri, who wilts like a flower in winter before his unwavering stare.

“What do you mean by that, Yuuri?”

“I-I…” He gulps before biting his lip and sighing deeply. “I just can’t,” Yuuri finally forces out. “I can’t skate a program about love. About any type of love. I just can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” Yurio asks, now curious. Mari, who was sitting quietly on the other end of the room watching television, finally speaks up.

“Yuuri,” she says, glaring at both Russians. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

“I know I don’t  _have_ to,” Yuuri says, letting out a shaky breath. “But I want to.”

He looks meaningfully at Mari and the two have a silent conversation with their eyes. Eventually, Mari yields with a sigh, shaking her head.

“Fine,” she says as she climbs to her feet and approaches the three. She looks at Yurio and gestures the hallway with a slight jerk of the head. “Come on, kid.”

He scowls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

One hardened glare from Mari is enough to persuade him and he rises, grumbling under his breath, to follow Mari out the room.

It’s just the two of them now, sitting on the opposite ends of a table. Yuuri’s watching him so intently that Viktor doesn’t even register the sounds of the television in the background or the tipsy conversations from the inn patrons drinking just a few tables away. All he sees is Yuuri, dark eyes burning in the orange light and Viktor suddenly feels his chest tighten. Hears his heartbeat thump loudly in his ears, deafening and distracting.

“What did you mean, then?” Viktor asks, voice hesitant. His lips struggle to form the words. It's like he's afraid of Yuuri's answer.

Yuuri gives him a rueful smile, full of self-loathing and unbearable sadness. Viktor never wants to see that expression on his face ever again. “I can’t skate a program about love,” Yuuri says. He speaks in a whisper and Viktor unconsciously leans forward, knowing that Yuuri is about to say something important and deserves undivided attention. “I mean, how can I? I don’t even know what love is.”

Yuuri closes his eyes, mustering up the strength to continue and Viktor waits for him to speak. The flowers feel like ivy in his lungs, cloyingly heavy and weighing him down.

“I’ve had surgery before. For flowers,” Yuuri says, voice soft. His eyes have gone glassy and he’s not looking at Viktor as much as he’s  _seeing through_ him, lost in memories that Viktor will never know. His hands, resting on the table top, clench into tight fists. “Now that I look back on it, it couldn’t have been love.” Yuuri shakes his head before correcting himself. “I  _know_  it wasn't love,” Yuuri says forcefully. Viktor stays quiet, letting Yuuri talk.

“I mean, he didn’t even know I existed back then,” Yuuri whispers. He looks heartbroken, eyes glassy and all Viktor wants to do is hug him tightly and comfort him until he’s soothed the pain away.

“It was an obsession, really,” Yuuri says with a derisive chuckle. “Obsession isn’t love. But I believed it was.”

Yuuri’s staring directly at Viktor now. The weight of his gaze makes Viktor feel like he’s burning up and yet he’s completely frozen, unable to look away as he forces himself to listen to how Yuuri’s heart must’ve broken, must’ve fractured into millions of little pieces like pristine white china being shattered onto a linoleum floor.

“They kept coming back,” Yuuri admits quietly with a sad smile. “They took them out, but by the next month, they were back. They were everywhere. Choking me. Suffocating me. They just kept growing and growing until I couldn’t breathe. The doctors said they had never seen anything like it. After the second time, they decided it was safer to make sure I could never grow anything again.”

Yuuri looks so lost, so broken. But Viktor can’t do anything. Can’t say anything to comfort him. All he can do is listen to him, listen to how much Yuuri has suffered. How much Yuuri’s endured through the years.

“I don’t have flowers, Viktor,” Yuuri finally admits. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes. Viktor wants to wipe them away. He doesn’t. Yuuri gives him a thin-lipped smile. “I haven’t had flowers since I was fifteen. And I’ll never have flowers ever again.”

“I don’t know what love is,” Yuuri finishes. “And I don’t think I ever will.”

Yuuri’s bared his heart to him. Showed Viktor the turmoil he endured, showed him the pain he’s felt. Yuuri’s heart is broken and Viktor, whose own heart Yuuri has kept all this time, breaks along with him.

* * *

The last time Viktor sees his father is when he’s seventeen.

For once, he’s home for Easter—the first time in Viktor’s memory they’ve celebrated the holidays as a full family. Viktor hadn’t seen his father for almost two years at this point. The last time he visited wasn’t even technically a visit. He just stopped by and spent the night before disappearing the next morning to continue the journey to his next job further up north.

Viktor’s mother doesn’t show it but Viktor knows she’s lonely. Viktor’s been living in the skater dorms in St.Petersburg for the past five years. He calls home every week and tries to visit when he can but Viktor knows his mother doesn’t have anyone else to spend time with, instead sitting alone in a house far too big for one person.

Now that both his father and he are home, she’s practically floating around the halls as she prepares brunch, humming lightly under her breath the entire time. She’s put her hair up for once, tied it neatly into a braided crown with glittering hairclips.

 _She’s radiant_ , Viktor thinks in awe.

Viktor and his father are sitting in the living room on opposite ends of the couch, watching some made-for-TV movie on the boxy television. It’s awkward. The two of them trade uncomfortable glances before coming to a silent mutual agreement to face forward and watch the poorly produced movie without interaction. Viktor wishes he’d brought Makka home with him. She could’ve been a welcome distraction. But Viktor left her at the dorms so she could keep a few of the younger skaters, who couldn’t go home for the holiday’s, company.

It’s nice, Viktor thinks, when they’ve all sat down for the meal. They hold hands as his mother says a quick prayer. Brunch is served on the expensive china his mother only uses on special occasions. They go to the church service afterward, dressed in their Sunday best and packed tightly into the pews with other families. On their way home, his father compliments Viktor’s skating at Russian Nationals. Viktor’s cheeks turn pink and he has to duck his face away to hide from his giggling mom.

This is what a family must be like, Viktor thinks, cherishing his memories of the day as he climbs into bed that night, curling into freshly-washed sheets. They smell faintly of lavender. His eyes feel heavy and his last thought as he goes to sleep is how much he wishes for this small happiness to last forever.

Viktor’s awakened only two hours later by the sound of breaking glass ringing in his ears.

Viktor’s opens his eyes blearily, wiping the drool off his chin as he sits up. Viktor first thinks he imagined it but only a few moments later, there’s another loud clatter so Viktor knows it’s real.

He holds his breath as he tiptoes down the hallway. Was it just an accident? A robber? Viktor wishes he had grabbed something to protect himself as he carefully rounds the corner and enters the main room.

It’s not a robber. It’s his father.

He’s standing near the glossy wooden china cabinet, face red and hard as granite. The nice dinnerware they ate on only hours earlier is shattered on the tiled floor, a porcelain wasteland glinting in the moonlight. His mother is standing on the other side of the kitchen. She’s crying. There are tears streaming down her face and she’s wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her hair falls around her shoulders, still wavy from the braids.

Viktor, half-shrouded in the darkness, can only watch in paralyzing shock.

“Misha,” she pleads, voice choked with tears. “Please. Let’s go back to bed. We can talk about it in the morning.”

“What is there to talk about?” he demands. Viktor’s never heard him raise his voice before. He’s never seen his father show strong emotion at all, actually.

“Misha, please,” She chokes out. She’s trembling, pale hands fisted in her soft blue nightgown.

“I can’t do this,” he says, striding past his mother to wrench open the closet door and shrug on his jacket. “I can’t do this.”

She follows him shakily, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Misha—”

“Don’t touch me!” He yells, whipping around to slap her hand away. She stands there, shell-shocked, hand still suspended outward. The skin’s turned an angry red from the force of the slap.

He looks regretful for a moment but steels his face as he turns around to grab his rucksack on the closet floor and sling it over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,  _milaya_ , but I can’t keep living my life like this,” he says. His mother is openly sobbing now, fat tears falling from her eyes and snot running down her face.

His father strides towards the door, ignoring his mother’s wails.

He hesitates as he grasps the doorknob, looking backward and finally meeting Viktor’s horrified eyes in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he simply says. He opens the door and doesn’t look back as he walks outside and out of their lives forever.

His mother lets out a piercing wail, falling to her knees. The porcelain cuts deep into her skin and a small puddle of blood begins pooling underneath her. Viktor can only watch silently as his mother breaks in front of him, trembling and sobbing into her hands. Her wedding ring glints sadly in the moonlight.

Viktor doesn't know much about his father but he’s certain of at least two things. His mother loved him far more than he deserved, and he loved Viktor not enough.

* * *

It only took the ten minutes that Viktor was assisting one of the elderly ISU officials to his car for the ballroom to descend total chaos.

The lights have been dimmed and the DJ has swapped the same classical piece he’s been playing on repeat the entire night for a bass-heavy beat more suited for a club than a stuffy banquet. There’s a crowd amassed on the dance floor, circled around a pair of dancers as they egg them on with loud cheers. Viktor spots Mila on the fringes of the group, one hand over her open mouth and the other outstretched high above her head recording the scene with a cellphone. He makes his way over to her.

“Mila?” Viktor says. “What’s going on?”

“I love him,” she breathes out. There are tears in her eyes. “Oh my god, Viktor. Let’s take him home with us—Yura will hate it so much.”

Eyebrows knitted in confusion, Viktor strains his neck to see who exactly is in the center of the dancefloor. The crowd shifts and a path clears and Viktor chokes on his spit when he realizes that  _Yuri_  is one of the dancers in the middle.

His oversized dress shirt is soaked through with sweat and he’s panting heavily, face red from exertion, as he struggles to keep up with the beat. Who Yuri is dancing with comes to even more of a surprise.

“Is—is that the skater from Japan?”

Mila nods dreamily. “He challenged Yura to a dance off and my god, is he not the best thing that’s ever happened at these boring banquets.”

If the two were having a dance off, there was a clear winner among them. Despite Yuri trying his hardest, he was no match for Yuuri Katsuki’s intense dance moves, popping and locking—and was that a windmill?—all over the floor with absolute confidence as he fully embraced and became one with the music. Viktor can’t resist taking his own phone out of his suit pocket and taking some pictures for himself.

Watching Yuri get completely outclassed on the dancefloor only makes Viktor hope that the teen will finally take this a lesson to work on his abysmal performance scores rather than focusing solely on his technical elements.

When the song finally ends and the crowd cheers so loud that Viktor’s pretty sure the floors shaking beneath them, the obvious winner waves happily to the crowd before bumbling his way to the refreshments table.

Yuri stalks back to Mila and Viktor, blowing his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. Mila looks like this is the best day of her life.

“Shut up,” he tells her before she can even open her mouth. He swipes the phone from her hand and pockets it. It’s the same phone, Viktor bemusedly notes, that Mila was using to film the battle.

“Now Yuri,” Viktor purrs. Yuri flinches as he finally notices Viktor’s presence. “Just because you’ve shown yourself to be the inferior dancer doesn’t mean you should take it on poor Mila.”

Yuri looks like he wants to tear Viktor into two with his own bare hands. “I am the better Yuri,” he hotly insists but it must’ve been too loud because Yuuri Katsuki, who has a glass of champagne in each hand, hears his indignant yell. He quirks an eyebrow and Yuri quickly avoids his gaze but the Japanese man is already sauntering over to them after quickly downing both glasses, one after the other.

“What was that, Yuri-chan?” His baby blue tie is hanging loosely on his neck and Viktor can see his drops of sweat running down his neck and into his shirt. “Did you want to do another round to prove who really is the better Yuri in here?”

Yuri turns a putrid shade of red as he mutters underneath his breath and stubbornly looks at the floor. Viktor can’t stop the chuckle that bursts out from his mouth.

Yuuri’s attention immediately snaps to him and Viktor feels like a specimen being observed under a microscope with how intense Yuuri is looking at him, leaning in and squinting up at him. His eyebrows shoot up in recognition.

“Viktor Nikiforov?” He asks. Viktor gives him a politely confused smile.

“Yes?”

Yuuri suddenly narrows his eyes, lips pursed together as he scans Viktor face. “I wonder what made you so special?” He quietly asks himself but with how close he’s leaning in, Viktor can hear every word loud and clear.

The way he says it, how he’s studying Viktor with such scrutiny, let’s Viktor know that he’s not just talking about his skating. It’s like he’s questioning Viktor’s entire being, wondering about Viktor the person and not just Viktor the skater. He feels exposed.

“P-pardon?”

Yuuri shakes his head, reaching out to grab at Viktor’s hand and tugging him to the dance floor. “Dance with me!” He insists instead of answering Viktor’s question.

The DJ starts playing a fast-paced flamenco song and Yuuri pulls him in close so that their chests are pressed flushed together, the tips of their noses almost touching. They’re so close that Viktor can see the light freckles dotting Yuuri’s nose and how deeply brown Yuuri’s eyes are in the dim lighting. 

“I hope you’re quick on your feet,” Yuuri laughs, giving him a cheeky wink before spinning Viktor round and round and round until he feels like he’s floating, ascending above the earth to dance amongst the glittering stars, sweeping across the Milky Way in this little corner of the universe tethered only by Yuuri's warm hand wrapped around his own.

Yuuri stops to hold Viktor close, hand resting strong and steadfast on his lower back and smiles, so completely and utterly breathtaking that Viktor can’t help but be swept off his feet, heart fluttering desperately in his ribcage.

* * *

Yurio takes one look at him before doubling over with raucous laughter, his lemonade sloshing out of his cup and onto their new couch. (Viktor’s thankful they went with dark leather because Yuuri would  _definitely_  kill him if he found any stains on it).

“The fuck you wearing? I know you’re old but that’s so fucking dated.”

Viktor frowns as he shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. “I look great,” Viktor says and Yuri falls back in another peal of laughter.

Privately, Viktor agrees with Yurio’s statements. Phichit had outfitted in something Viktor’s only seen in old history textbooks, in the photographs of tsars and nobles from long ago.

Viktor’s wearing a military-style Russian coat. It’s a bright vibrant red with gold shiny buttons all the way down the front. There’s an assortment of pins and medals on the left side of his chest and the official state seal on his right, the regal double-headed Eagle prominent against the bright fabric. There are even shoulder pads on the jacket, golden with beaded tassels that swish with each step he stakes. Viktor feels like he’s wearing a costume.

Yurio’s still snickering. “All you’re missing are those bearskins hats to hide your bald spot.”

“Oh, I have that right here!” Mila says, raising the dark brown hat with another golden state seal imprinted in the center. Yurio’s laughter is deafening at this point.

Viktor pouts. At Yuuri’s suggestion, Viktor’s grown his hair out for the past month so it’s now it just sitting above his shoulders. Mila calls it a lob. Yurio, who had just cut his hair short to show off his variety of piercings, calls it a disgrace. Viktor’s tied it into a small braid today, the end tied with a thin black ribbon.

Viktor fiddles with one of the buttons on the sleeve, adjusting to the stiff fabric. “What is this?” He asks, directing his attention to Phichit. The man is grinning up at him without a hint of remorse.

“Amazing, that’s what,” he responds with a double thumbs up and Viktor shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Is Yuuri ready yet?” He asks, glancing around the room and frowning when he doesn’t spot his fiancé.

As if on cue, the door to the master bedroom opens and a laughing Sara appears, struggling to pull an unwilling arm into view.

“Yuuri! Come on!”

“I look ridiculous! I don’t know how you even convinced me to put this on!”

Rolling her arms, Sara gives one final tug and a furiously blushing Yuuri stumbles after her and into the living room.

Viktor feels his mouth dry instantly at the sight of them. Phichit’s plan suddenly becomes clear, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle finally connecting into place.

Viktor’s seen Yuuri in traditional Japanese clothing before—remembers the lightweight yukata Yuuri wore at the summer festival Yuuri took him to his first summer in Hasetsu, of the fireworks reflected in his eyes and pink lips sweetened by the spun sugar—but nothing could have prepared him for this.

He’s in a kimono.

It’s a beautifully made one. The top is a deep navy blue that flatters Yuuri’s tanned skin. The bottom is black but most of it is covered in a beautiful floral pattern, each petal painstakingly embroidered with gold thread and tied with a light blue obi. He has a thin overcoat draped over his shoulders, the same blue as the top but with a slightly raised swirling satin pattern. The edges of the overcoat are also gold, shiny and almost shimmering under the fluorescent lights. His hair is neatly combed and his glasses are off, nothing obscuring Viktor from Yuuri’s brown doe eyes.

He looks like royalty.

“Wow,” Viktor breathes out. He ignores Mila’s and Sara’s giggles and Yurio’s disgusted retching in the background, instead focused on Yuuri’s bashful face.

“I look ridiculous,” Yuuri mumbles, unable to meet Viktor’s eyes. Viktor lets out a laugh and steps forward to wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him in to leave a soft kiss on his temple.

“You look stunning,  _solnyshko_ ,” he reassures him and Yuuri gives him a small tender smile.

The moments interrupt by frantic shutter noises and the two look up to see Phichit’s massive DSLR pointed in their face, taking picture after picture.

“I’m a genius,” Phichit declares. Yuuri snorts, hiding his face behind one of his long sleeves and Viktor straightens up and offers an arm out to Yuuri.

“After you, your highness,” Viktor says with Yuuri accepts his arm with a squeaky giggle.

Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing today, though the air remained crisp and biting with the winter chill. Viktor’s glad to have the heavy wool coat on as they walk down Moscow’s city streets. Yuuri, while swathed in yards of fabric, is still shivering. He happily cozies up into Viktor’s side as they matched each other’s pace step by step, trailing after Phichit and his crew.

It was a little embarrassing to walk around in such traditional garb. Viktor’s acutely aware of the attention that he and Yuuri attract, the strangers gawking at them and pulling out their phones to take their pictures. Some of their fans even recognized them and the acquiesced to a few selfies before continuing on their way. Viktor knows that there will articles written about them on countless of gossip sites before the days even over.

Phichit was uncaring of their discomfort as he forced them to pose in various locations. Moscow is a beautiful city, with grandiose sculptures and buildings all around. Viktor has no doubt that the pictures will turn out wonderfully, Yuuri and Viktor, cheeks red with embarrassment, arms wrapped up in each other, with white marble columns and imposing doorways as the backdrop.

Still, it’s embarrassing with how brazen Phichit is with his directing.

“This is a bank, Phichit,” Yuuri complains when the Thai man stops them once again and ushers them to the entrance.

“A bank with beautiful architecture,” Phichit hisses. “Now go take your fiancé’s hands and stare lovingly into his eyes while I take your picture.”

After of the two of them get used to the absurdity of the situation, they actually have fun posing in these traditional clothing, laughing and snickering as they make ridiculous poses and let Phichit take dozens of photos.

They’re taking a small break, resting at a nearby park. Phichit is chewing out Yurio about holding the light reflector properly (“It’s not my fault Viktor’s massive forehead keeps blinding your camera—“ “ _Hey!_ ”) and Mila and Sara are taking selfies off to the side. They’ve been at it for almost an hour now, meandering around the city, and Yuuri’s trembling horribly now. His fingers are practically frozen in Viktor’s hands as he attempts to warm them up with his hot breath.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asks worriedly. Yuuri sighs through chattering teeth.

“This kimono is unlined,” Yuuri explains, “so it’s kind of like I’m walking around wrapped only in a bedsheet.”

“Well,” Viktor says, lowering his voice, “I have personal experience to know that you look amazing just wearing a bedsheet.”

Viktor laughs when Yuuri pulls his hands away from Viktor to swat irritably at his shoulder, scowling but cheeks a traitorous pink.

Viktor smiles down at Yuuri, who’s refusing to look at him with a cute pout on his face. He unbuttons his coat and shrugs it off so he’s only wearing a plain white  _kosovorotka._

“Here,” he says, draping the coat over Yuuri’s shivering shoulders. “It would be disgraceful of me as your coach to allow you to get sick in the middle of the season.”

“What about you?” Yuuri asks with a frown but he’s already contentedly snuggling into the fabric. Viktor’s heart warms at the sight.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures him. When Yuuri doesn’t look convinced, Viktor puffs his chest out and raises his chin proudly. “I’m Russian,  _solnyshko_. Weather like this isn’t enough to stop me.”

Yuuri’s reply is cut off by the sound of a camera shutter.

“Phichit,” Yuuri groans with a shake of the head.

Uncaring, Phichit grins at him. Yurio, at his side, is grudgingly holding up the light reflector high above his head.

“You’re a genius, Viktor!” Phichit squeals and he doesn’t allow Viktor to question why before they’re being ushered into a nearby café. Viktor doesn’t even have a moment to appreciate the sudden warmth before Phichit is hurriedly pushing them into the single stall bathroom.

“I’m giving you just fifteen minutes to swap clothes,” Phichit tells them. “No hanky panky, you lovebirds.” He winks at them before closing the door shut.

Twenty minutes later (“Phichit, this kimino is literally twelve yards of fabric—I’m sorry but that takes a while to put on), Viktor and Yuuri are standing outside dressed in each other’s clothing. While it was relatively simple to adjust the kimono to Viktor’s larger size, though it was slightly short at the ankles, Viktor’s clothes look obviously oversized on Yuuri. The coat ends almost on his knees and the sleeves end almost on his fingertips. Even the bearskin hat is too large for him, sitting crooked on his messy hair.

He looks adorable.

“I love you,” Viktor says suddenly. Yuuri looks abashed at the sudden confession but he still gives Viktor a cheeky grin as he offers his arm out to Viktor just like he did for Yuuri only hours earlier.

“After you, your highness,” Yuuri repeats with a twinkle in his eye and not even the constant shutter of Phichit’s camera or Yurio’s gagging in the background is enough to stop Viktor from happily accepting Yuuri’s outstretched arm, hugging it to his chest.

* * *

Viktor knows it’s cruel but regardless of the results of the competition, Viktor has no intentions of going back to Russia.

There were too many bad memories left in Russia, skeletons in the closet Viktor isn’t ready to dig out. It wasn’t until he landed in Hasetsu, breathed in the salty sea air and welcomed into the quaint home the Katsuki’s made for themselves, that Viktor realized how close to suffocating he was. How every day that passed felt closer to his last and he was powerless to change it.

In Hasetsu, Viktor felt like he could breathe again.

The day of the Onsen on Ice competition, the rink is full of bustling fans and reporter’s eager to see the two skaters. The triplet’s social media coverage had done wonders in attracting people for the competition.

The three of them are in the back room as Viktor watches them warm up for the upcoming performance. It’s startling how much Yurio looks like him in his shimmery white costume, blonde hair curling around his face. In the past few days, Yurio finally discovered his inspiration and threw himself into Agape, a beautiful ever-evolving monster. Currently, he’s sitting close to the exit, stretching into the splits.

Viktor shifts his attention to his competitor. While Yurio had finally found his Agape, Yuuri was still struggling to find his Eros. Just like the first day Viktor introduced the programs, his movement EW still disjointed and jerky. While he could execute the technical elements well enough, he still hadn’t grasped the true essence of the program.

It’s a shame, Viktor thinks, as he surveys Yuuri, with dark bags underneath his eyes, slump into a butterfly stretch. The firecracker of the man from the banquet, the one who inspired this program in the first place, is nowhere to be seen and Viktor can't help but feel a slight twinge of disappointment.

Yurio skates first. He’s a vision in silver and white as he dances on the ice, limbs long and graceful. The crowd is enraptured as he soars around the rink, body so light it’s like he’s not even touching the ground.

Viktor’s impressed. He’s watched Yurio skate since his novice years and he’s come a long way from the surly boy who could execute jump after jump perfectly but struggled with conveying any type of emotion besides rage and fiery competitive spirit.

But he still has a long way to go, Viktor thinks. He sees the exact moment where Yurio’s concentration lapses as he throws himself into a quad salchow, forgetting everything about grace and beauty in favor for technical perfection,

Yurio knows it too because the moment he steps off the ice, he shrugs off Viktor’s congratulations and skulks off to an abandoned part of the rink.

It’s Yuuri’s turn next.

There’s a ball of nervousness forming in his chest as Yuuri takes the ice, face pensive. He doesn’t acknowledge any of the fans screaming his name or the reports clamoring for his attention. He skates to the center of the rink, settling into his starting pose.

The music starts. He turns to Viktor and shoots him a dangerous smirk. Viktor can’t help the low and impressed whistle that escapes.

Well, Yuuri always had a habit of surprising him.

It’s like Viktor’s watching an entirely different skater—confident and self-assured. He commands the ice with utmost intensity and Viktor can’t look away.

There’s still much for him to improve on. Viktor winces when he stumbles and falls hard on the ice after a failed quad. But he gets up quickly, focus not wavering the slightest as he enters a graceful camel spin.

When the final chords ring out and the crowd cheers become deafening, Viktor’s reminded of that dance-off long, long ago. It’s clear who’s the winner here.

Yuuri, panting, looks like he can’t believe what he’s done, thunderstruck by the ringing applause. He straightens up and looks frantically around before finally meeting Viktor’s smile and giving him a heart-stopping smile.

“Viktor!” He cries out, scrambling towards the man with arms outstretched.

Viktor knows it’s a bad idea, can already feel the flowers fluttering dangerously in his chest, but he opens his arms anyway, laughing when Yuuri slams into his embrace and holds him tight.

“Viktor! Did you see?”

He’s looking up at him, eyes shining brightly. There’s a thin sheen of perspiration on his face and he’s panting heavily but Yuuri looks the most energetic he’s been these past few days. His grin is contagious.

“You were wonderful,” Viktor tells him honestly and his smile turns a little more bashful as he ducks his head in embarrassment. The tips of his ears are flushed.

“Do you really think so?” Yuuri asks shyly. It’s nothing like how he was on the ice only moments earlier, seductive and powerful. He’s soft—looking up at Viktor beneath dark lashes and pink cheeks.

Viktor truly does. He could tell him how beautiful he was—how Yuuri is like a shooting star streaking through the sky and all Viktor can do is watch, privileged to watch such an enchanting figure dance on the ice.

He doesn’t say any of that though. Instead, the tightness in his chest becomes too much to ignore and he coughs lightly, little white petals escaping his mouth. One of them falls onto Yuuri’s eyelash and he blinks confusedly, letting it fall off from his face and onto his open palm.

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, looking at single petal cradled in his hand. Viktor wishes he would say anything but all he can do is watch helplessly as something akin to horror dawns over his Yuuri’s face. He stumbles out of Viktor’s grasp and Viktor can’t even get a word out before Yuuri’s rushing away, face bowed. He’s shaking, Viktor notices as Yuuri disappears into the back hallways of the rink.

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, dark and suffocating, and Viktor hopes he hasn’t made a mistake.

* * *

“Are you sure that you don’t want to invite anyone else?”

Viktor pauses from where he’s reading his novel, carefully dogearing the page (“Viktor, use a bookmark!” “ _Yuuri_ , there’s nothing wrong with bending the pages! Stop looking at me like that!”) before placing the paperback on the nightstand and rolling over to Yuuri’s side of the bed.

He rests his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, glancing at the word document Yuuri has open on his laptop on his lap. He goes through the list of names quickly.

“Nope, I think you got everyone.”

Yuuri frowns, squinting as he hunches closer to look at the list. The bright screen reflects off his glasses. “Are you sure? I mean, we only have thirty guests so far.”

“Did you write Makkachin down?” Viktor asks with pursed lips.

“Of course, I did. She’s number three.” Yuuri looks offended that Viktor even asked.

Viktor smiles, snuggling contently into his shoulder. “I knew there was a reason I’m marrying you,” he coos lovingly up at him and Yuuri rolls his eyes fondly as he wraps around an arm around Viktor’s shoulder and pet at his hair.

There’s still an unsatisfied frown on Yuuri’s face and Viktor exhales slowly, continuing on to placate his fiancé. “Honestly, Yuuri, I promise you have everyone. Look, you even remembered to invite Lilia! There was no one else I wanted to invite.”

He doesn’t respond.

“What’s troubling you,  _lyubov moya_?”

Yuuri purses his lips. “I just thought you wanted a big wedding. All the people you invited are our mutual friends of ours.”

Viktor sighs. “I told you, Yuuri. I’m okay with this.” He pauses, looking over the guest list. “Though, you are missing someone very important.”

Puzzled, Yuuri leans forward to closely read through the document one time. “Really?” he asks. “I thought I got everyone.”

“Here.” Viktor takes the laptop from Yuuri and quickly tabs a new space on the top, typing the missing name.

  1. _Yuuri Katsuki_



Yuuri laughs, grabbing the pillow from behind him and using it to smack Viktor in a shoulder. “Viktor! Be serious.”

Viktor huffs out a laugh. “Okay, okay.” He revises his entry.

  1. _Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov_



“Viktor!” Yuuri falls back in a peal of laughter, hugging his stomach as his face flushes with delight. He slides down so he’s laying flat on his back, stretching his neck to look at his fiancé. Viktor smiles down at him, glad he could make Yuuri laugh at least.

“I’m serious,  _solnyshko_.” Viktor tells him, eyes unbearably fond. “You’re the only one I need. If you told me you wanted to elope tomorrow, I would already have the plane tickets to Las Vegas booked.”

Yuuri hums, pretending to contemplate the suggestion. “We do have a lot of frequent flier miles,” Yuuri muses and the two share a smile.

Viktor saves the word document before placing the laptop on his nightstand. “Come on,” he says, slapping Yuuri lightly on the knee. “We can look over it tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

Viktor’s in the middle of switching the bedside lamp off when Yuuri finally speaks.

“What about your family?”

Viktor pauses, fingers grazing over the switch. Yuuri’s staring up at the ceiling, dark hair fanned out beneath him like a halo. Viktor retracts his hand from the light and settles into a seated position.

“Well, we aren’t particularly close,” Viktor finally says. “I don’t see a point in inviting them.”

“Your father?”

Viktor snorts, a wry smile taking over his face. “I told you, I haven’t seen him in over a decade. Even if I did know where he is, I wouldn’t want to invite him.”

“And your mother?”

Viktor hums non-committedly. “We don’t talk anymore,” he simply says.

“She sent you a letter,” Yuuri says, eyes still trained above him. He watches the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles, the low whirring a comforting white noise in their cozy bedroom. Viktor freezes, feeling ice shoot down his veins before he looks down accusatorily at Yuuri.

“Did you go through my mail?” Viktor asks incredulously.

Yuuri scoffs. “Of course not,” he says. He rolls over so he’s on his stomach, tucking his chin on the pillow he’s hugging underneath him. “I found it in the garbage while I was cleaning up the other day— thought it might’ve gotten in there by mistake.” Yuuri glances at Viktor from the corner of his eyes. “I take it that it wasn’t then?”

Viktor sighs, tremendously tired and weary. He slides down so he’s on his side, Yuuri’s face only inches away from his.

“ _I_  don’t want to talk anymore,” he corrects himself. “I’m not interested in seeing what she has to say.”

Yuuri frowns, lifting a hand to gently pet at Viktor’s hair. Viktor sighs contentedly, feeling his eyes droop at the comforting gesture.

“She’s your mother, Vitya.” His voice is soft, like a gentle lullaby soothing him to sleep. “You should at least give her a chance and listen to what she says.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Viktor admits. Yuuri smiles at him sadly before opening his arms. He doesn’t hesitate to dive into Yuuri’s embrace, hugging him tightly and breathing in the smell of Yuuri’s freshly washed hair. Yuuri wraps his own arms around Viktor, rubbing soothing circles into his back and Viktor instantly relaxes in Yuuri’s hold.

“I hate her, Yuuri,” Viktor confesses, face buried in the crook of Yuuri’s neck. “I never want to see her again.”

He doesn’t speak but Yuuri’s arms tighten ever so slightly around him.

* * *

“Vitya, get off your phone.”

Viktor ignores him. Instead, he presses the call button on his flip phone again, bringing it to his ear. The phone rings endlessly, the sound echoing in his ear.

“ _I’m sorry—the person you are trying to reach is unavailable. If you’d like to leave a message, please—“_

He curses underneath his breath before trying again.

“ _I’m sorry—the person you are trying to reach—“_

“Viktor,” Yakov says sternly. His face is pinched as he stares meaningfully down at his skater. “Warm up is about to start. We need to leave now.”

Viktor doesn’t respond, phone still pressed tightly against his ear.

“Come on, come on. Pick up,” he mutters underneath his breath.

“ _I’m sorry—the person you are trying to reach is unavailable.”_

“Fuck!” Viktor swears. He runs a hand through his hair, uncaring of how he musses the elaborate silvery crown Lilia’s painstakingly braided it into.

He looks up to Yakov, face crestfallen. “Why won’t she pick up?” Viktor asks.

Yakov sighs, offering his team jacket to him. Viktor snatches it and angrily forces his arms through the sleeves, zipping it up all the way to his chin.

“I’m sorry, Vitya, but we need to focus. Now is not the time to—“

The phone in Viktor’s hand begins to ring shrilly and Viktor ignores Yakov’s disgruntled face in favor of frantically opening his phone and seeing who’s calling him on the screen.

_Ana Nikiforov is calling…_

“Mama?” Viktor asks, voice panic-stricken. He’s agitatedly fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. “Mama? Where are you? How come you weren’t picking up earlier?”

“Vitya?” Her voice is faint, getting lost in the static of the call. Viktor struggles to pick out her words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you were calling.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Never mind that. Where are you? My group is about to start warming up.”

“Warm up…?”

Viktor groans. “Yes, warm up! For the men’s free skate today! Where are you?”

Viktor’s mother hadn’t seen him skate in person since his novice years. Back then, when he was still competing in local competitions, she would come with handmade banners, cheering for him on the rink side before taking him to get ice cream regardless of how he placed. However, as Viktor grew older and his competitions were no longer a few cities away but now several  _countries_  away, he knew that he couldn’t expect her to come and support him for every single one. Money was already tight enough with Viktor’s expensive skating fees. He couldn’t ask her to come fly around the world every other month.

This is the first competition that’s near Viktor’s hometown, only a short thirty-minute train ride away. Viktor had told her the moment the location for Worlds has been announced and repeatedly reminded her until she was laughing and told him she can’t forget at this point with how often he told her.

“Oh, Viktor,” she sighs. She sounds tired, weary almost. “I’m sorry but I don’t think I can make it.”

“What?” Viktor sputters. “What are you saying? This is the first time since I’ve started competing in Seniors that I actually have a chance of taking a world title. This is World’s, Mama! This is the most important competition of the season!”

She sighs. “Vitenka,” she starts.

“Don’t Vitenka me!” Viktor shouts. His free hand is balled up into a fist, shaking imperceptibly. “I can’t believe you right now! You know how important this is to me and now you’re saying you can’t make it! I—“

“Viktor!” Her voice is sharp and the words instantly die on Viktor’s tongue. “Don’t speak to me in that tone! I already told you that I couldn't come. Stop acting like a child!”

It’s silent between them. The weak connection crackles in his ear. Viktor ignores the sting of tears in his eyes.

“Vitya?” Her voice is soft again. She sounds regretful but Viktor already feels sick, bile rising up in his throat and mouth tasting like acid. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that—“

“It’s fine,” Viktor cuts her off.

“I—“

“I said it’s fine!” Viktor yells. “I need to warm up now. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I—“

He hangs up the phone before she can even finish her sentence.

Yakov, who’s been standing silently at his side throughout the entire interaction, places a hand on Viktor’s trembling shoulder. “Vitya?”

“It’s fine, Yakov!” Viktor bursts out, shaking off Yakov’s hand. He winces at how loud his voice echoes throughout the empty room before shaking his head and handing his phone over to his coach. “It’s whatever,” he says. He's dropped to a whisper now. “Let’s just go.”

The phone in Yakov’s hands starts to ring. Viktor pointedly looks away and Yakov sighs, switching it to silent and tucking it away in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Vitya,” Yakov says. Viktor shakes off his apology. “Still, don’t let this distract you. You’ve worked hard this season—don’t let it go to waste. You’re leading after the short program by almost five points.”

“Yeah, I know, Yakov,” he says but his words feel empty. He feels empty. The previous excitement fluttering in his stomach at his first world title has all but disappeared now, replacing it with a hollow sinking feeling. Yakov looks displeased but there’s nothing he can do. Instead, he gestures to the rink entrance. Viktor can already hear the thunderous cheers of the crowd outside as the last group begins to enter the rink. He squares his shoulders and walks out, Yakov following after him. Immediately, he’s bombarded by the blinding camera flashes. The cheers turn deafening. He keeps his head held high as he continues forward.

When Viktor walks out, he will be a champion.

* * *

“Is that really all you have to say?”

She flinches back, eyes widening in shock. Her tea has spilled all over the table top, the delicate cup overturned and chipped, staining the dark wood and dripping over the edge.

Viktor’s out of his chair now, both hands braced on the table from when he slammed them down as he stood up. It’s the first strong emotion Viktor’s shown since arriving and now that’s he started, he can’t hold anything back. Anger and resentment are flooding over his senses and he’s looking down at her, shoulders trembling and hands almost twitching into fists.

She’s staring up at him but to his surprise, she doesn’t falter. Instead, she’s staring defiantly back up at him, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Well, what do you want me to say then?”  

Viktor groans, frustrated. “Something more than ‘okay’ at least.”

“What could I have said then? Do you want me to say that I want to come? That you should invite me?” She asks with a sigh.

“You could’ve at least have said you were sorry!”

It’s quiet. Viktor’s completely standing up now, hunched over and fists clenched tightly. He’s looking off to the side, unable to face his mother directly.

“You never even apologized,” Viktor says, voice much softer. “Instead, you act like nothing’s happened. Like it doesn’t matter. How do you think that makes me feel?” His voice cracks slightly at the end.

There’s a pained expression on her face, shoulders pulled low and arms resting in her lap.

“Viktor, why don’t you sit down?”

He doesn’t. The tea continues to drip steadily onto the floor. She sighs.

She starts slowly, carefully choosing her words. Her caution makes even Viktor angrier. It’s as if she’s hiding something from him. Viktor’s almost thirty years old now. He doesn’t appreciate being talked down to like a child.

“I know that I’ve done a lot wrong by you,” she says.  “I know that I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“It’s not about forgiveness!” Viktor bursts out. He lets out a noisy, struggling to regain control over his emotions. “It’s about remorse,” he tells her. “Don’t you feel bad at all?”

“Of course I do!” She chokes out. She finally looks up and there are tears budding the corner of her eyes. “I feel terrible! Awful! But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it.”

“Can’t you start by giving an explanation then?” He’s pleading now, eyes suspiciously glossy. “Don’t you think I deserve to know at this point?”

She hesitates. Her lower lip wobbles slightly but otherwise, she doesn’t make a motion to speak. From beneath the table, her hands are fisted into the fabric of her dress. She won’t even look him in the eye.

Slowly, Viktor’s face hardens, mouth set into a thin line. “Maybe some things can’t be fixed then,” Viktor says. Something akin to resignation settles over his face.

She bites her lip. “Is that what you want then?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Viktor says. He just feels tired now. He doesn’t understand how Yuuri convinced him it was a good idea to come. Viktor regrets this entire day. “I can’t do this.”

Perhaps it’s cruel, to use the words his father once said that night. But when he sees her flinch back, face crumpling in anguish, Viktor realizes that he wanted them to hurt. Wanted her to experience the tiniest sliver of what he felt back then. Back when the thorns cut his throat raw and all he knew was blood-stained marigolds.

“I’m leaving,” he tells her. Her head is bowed, bangs shadowing over her face. She makes no indication that she hears him apart from the tiniest wince. He slips his jacket on, quickly followed by his shoes near the front door. He pauses as he grips the doorknob, the metal cool against his sweaty palm. Viktor turns back and sees his mother still in the same spot, hands in her lap and lips pressed so tight together, they’re white.

“Please don’t contact me again,” Viktor says. The door clicks shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading part 2! I hope you enjoyed it! I'm pretty positive that the next part will be the last chapter so it might take a bit longer than usual.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left encouraging comments!! They really make my day \\(*´♡｀*)/ Let me know what you guys think about the second! I really liked how the structure of this part went with the placement of the different scenes (also, domestic fluffy victuuri bc that gives me life)
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr [@pockybugi](http://pockybugi.tumblr.com/)!


	3. someone that loves you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Then what are you saying?” Viktor asks, voice borderline hysterical. It’s hard to breathe, hard to focus—hard to do anything really. All he’s aware of his heart pounding like a drum, resonating in his ears to an almost deafening level. Yuuri’s expertly avoiding his gaze. He sees him grip the phone in his hand a little tighter and his ring catches the light, glinting prettily. Viktor feels like he's going crazy._
> 
> _Yuuri’s next words are the final killing blow._
> 
> _“Let’s end this. Let’s end us.”_
> 
> Viktor always thought that Yuuri understood him— understood the deep and visceral feelings Viktor held, blooming prettily in his heart. Perhaps he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from [someone that loves you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQC3dBWS_FE) by honne
> 
> i'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes ^_^"

“Are you still sulking?”

“I’m not sulking,” Viktor insists. Yuuri rolls his eyes in response and nods in feigned agreement.

“Of course, of course. That’s why there shouldn’t be any reason you’re currently wallowing in my bed.”

Viktor scowls, burrowing himself even further into the blanket burrito he’s cocooned himself in. Makkachin, who Viktor’s been using as a pillow, shifts and snuffles in her sleep. “I’m not wallowing either,” Viktor mutters.

Yuuri sighs, swiveling around in his desk chair so he’s facing Viktor. He slides across the floor until his knees bump the edge of the bed, reaching to pat Viktor’s head through the thick comforter.

“Are you still upset about what the florist said?” Yuuri asks and the way Viktor immediately pouts, eyebrows scrunching together, gives Yuuri his answer.

“She looked at me like I was stupid when I told her what I wanted,” Viktor mumbles.

Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. His bangs fall around his face from where they were swept behind his ears. “She looked at you like that because your Japanese is atrocious and you ended up asking if she had any children with asthma.”

Viktor pouts even further. “Your mom likes my Japanese.”

“My mom thinks you hung up the moon,” Yuuri tells him, almost fondly. “Of course, it wouldn’t bother her.”

Viktor hums. “Well, it  _was_  pretty difficult to find a ladder that tall,” he says with a smug look. Viktor yelps when Yuuri stops petting him to smack him solidly on the forehead.

Makkachin, unhappy with the constant jostling, extricates herself from Viktor’s embrace and leaps carefully to the floor before plodding across the room and out the door. Viktor watches her retreating figure with a frown.

“Look at what you did,” he accuses Yuuri with a sniff. “I guess you’re going to have to be my pillow now.”

Yuuri laughs, looking exasperated, but he still maneuvers out of his desk chair and onto the bed, letting Viktor’s head rest on his thighs. Viktor sighs contentedly.

“You can understand why she would be confused though, right?” Yuuri continues. “After all, most people do consider it a supplementary flower for any type of arrangement.”

“You are  _not_  a supplementary flower!” Viktor bursts out.

Yuuri shakes his head in exasperation. “I didn’t  _say_  I was,” he says, poking at the center of Viktor’s furrowed forehead. “But it’s strange when say you only want baby’s breath as the flowers for our wedding. Why don’t you choose something else as well?”

Viktor frowns. He knows it’s old-fashioned but he’s always wanted the flowers at the wedding to be their own. The image of a soft white bouquet clutched in Yuuri’s hands as he smiles up at him, cheeks a blooming red, makes Viktor feel weak.

Yuuri needs only one look at Viktor’s face to understand what he’s thinking because he snorts, shaking his head.

“You’re a sap,” he groans but there’s still a smile playing on his lips. Viktor puffs his cheeks out in displeasure.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Viktor mumbles and Yuuri gives his shoulder a consolatory pat before sliding out from beneath Viktor and getting to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Viktor asks, craning his neck to follow Yuuri’s movements. “Get back here! My neck needs proper support!”

Yuuri waves him off without turning back, instead crossing the room to reach his closet. Using his desk chair as a stool (“Yuuri! That spins! What if you get hurt?”), he rummages through the top shelf before pulling out a battered old shoebox. He comes back to Viktor’s side, this time sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed with the box cradled protectively in his lap.

Viktor cocks his head curiously as he observes the box, dusty and almost falling apart if it weren’t for the copious amounts of scotch tape holding it together. He slowly unravels the cocoon he’s wrapped himself in, matching Yuuri’s position as he sits up. “What’s that?” he asks, peering down at the box.

There’s an embarrassed blush on Yuuri’s face, spreading all the way down his collarbone to the very tips of his ears. He lets out an awkward cough before scratching at his jaw.

“It’s something from my past,” Yuuri finally says. He can’t even look Viktor in the eye.

Dropping his mouth open into an ‘o’, Viktor leans in excitedly. “Is this your teenage porn?” He asks in a hushed whisper.

Yuuri chokes, sputtering furiously. Somehow, he blushes even more— Viktor didn’t know he could get that red. “What—of course not! Viktor!” He’s practically shrieking now.

Viktor pouts, slightly put out. “Then what is it?”

Nose still scrunched in mortification, Yuuri carefully eases the top off the box and places it to the side.

Viktor peers inside, eyes widening as he registers the contents of the box.

“Is this…”

Yuuri nods. His bites at his bottom lip before continuing. “These are mine.”

There’s not much in the box. A few photographs are scattered haphazardly around, overlapping each other. A picture of a teenage Yuuri, hair cropped short with a wriggling puppy in his arms, is what grabs Viktor’s attention first. Viktor sees a few other letters and postcards as well as other assorted knick-knacks but he doesn’t look too closely at them.

What Viktor is focused on are the flowers.

There are around ten of them, encased in a shiny transparent glass, the colors vivid within the clear resin. It’s as if they had only bloomed yesterday, perfectly preserved at the peak of freshness. Viktor’s heart stutters to a halt as he takes them in.

“Can I…” Viktor asks softly. Reverently, even. Yuuri nods so Viktor reaches out cautiously to pick up the one closest to him. It contains a trio of pale pink blossoms and Viktor cradles it in his palm.

“It was  _onee-san’s_  idea,” Yuuri explains, “to save them like this. We snuck out a few nights before my last surgery. Took the overnight train to Fukuoka. She told me I should treasure these memories.”

Yuuri smiles fondly down at the flower in Viktor’s hand. He takes it from him slowly, wiping the dust off the surface of the glass with his thumb.

“These are plum blossoms,” Yuuri says. “They’re one of the most beloved flowers in Japan. It’s considered the flower of the winter so it stands for renewal and perseverance.” He smiles softly. “These were my mother’s.”

One by one, Yuuri takes out each of the flowers and quietly explains their names and meaning, about the stories behind them. He’s leaning so close to Viktor that their foreheads are almost touching. He tells them about Mari’s stargazer lilies. About Minako’s jasmine flowers. Yuuko’s sweet peas. Viktor listens silently as Yuuri’s calming voice washes over him, feeling incredibly thankful that Yuuri trusts him enough to share this with him.

There’s only one left now.

Viktor stares at it in wonder as Yuuri smiles at him. Yuuri pulls out the last one and holds it between them. The flowers are a pretty light blue color—the same as Hasetsu ocean waves, sparkling underneath the summer sun—wound around a skinny green stalk. They’re the largest out of all the flowers, with the prettiest blossoms and brightest colors.

“It’s a blue delphinium,” Yuuri says. “I don’t remember the exact meaning but it’s commonly used to represent happiness. To represent good things.” Yuuri coughs awkwardly, looking to the side. “To be honest, I didn’t really understand it. Back then, I mean. After all, they brought me so much pain. I never could understand how this was supposed to mean happiness.”

Yuuri looks at Viktor from the corner of his eyes, a shy smile playing on his lips. “I think I finally understand now though.”

Viktor can only nod.

He takes Viktor’s hand and places it in the center of his palm, using his hands to gently curl Viktor’s fingers around the smooth glass. Viktor looks at it in awe. “Our wedding colors are already blue and silver. I think it will look nice with baby’s breath, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Viktor breathes out, voice soft like a prayer. “I think so too.”

* * *

There’s a vase of long-stemmed roses on the bookcase—the deep red petals vivid against the dark wood.

Viktor can’t stop looking at them.

 “Why do you have those?” Viktor finally asks. It’s after lunchtime now and Viktor’s visiting his mother during his rest day. He’s directly in the middle of training, Europeans only a few weeks away, but he made sure to come by and visit home even if it was only for a short amount of time.

His mother, who was wrapping their leftovers with cling wrap, looks up. “What are you talking about?” She asks, following Viktor’s line of sight until her eyes meet deep red petals. She quirks a small smile.

“They’re nice, don’t you think?” She asks him. She finishes wrapping up the plate before placing it in the fridge. “The florist gave them to me last time I went to the market. I think they really liven up the room.”

Viktor can’t agree. After all, whenever he sees roses, all he can remember are rotting petals falling from her lips, almost black and stark against the unnatural paleness of her skin. Memories of her frail form, heaving with the force of each guttural cough. He thinks of her thin lips, reddened with her own blood, telling him that she’ll be fine. That he shouldn’t worry. That she’ll get through this.

She might have survived them, but only just.

Viktor looks away in disgust. “How can you even stand to look at them?” He asks, pressing his lips together into a thin line. “After everything you’ve been through?”

A few days ago, Viktor accompanied Georgi to get an apology bouquet for his angry girlfriend after another one of their explosive fights (and by explosive, it means she yelled at him for almost an hour while Georgi struggled to hold back tears. Viktor doesn’t understand why he won’t take his advice and just break up with her). Only just a quick glance at a display of roses, a mere flash in the corner of his eyes, was enough for Viktor to feel bile rise up his throat, sharp and acidic on his tongue. He ended up having to sit in the parking lot, head ducked between his knees and struggling to control his breathing while Georgi looked on worriedly.

He turns away.

She sighs, wiping her damp hands on the front of her apron, before sitting in the chair beside him. She hasn’t looked the same since her surgery. She’s desperately thin, wrists bony and skin stretched taut across her frame. There are dark sunken circles beneath her tired eyes, ugly against the sallow skin. Viktor can see the beginning of a deep puckered scar peeking above the collar of her dress and knows that it goes all the way down her chest, angry and red.

“They’re only flowers, Vitenka,” she says. She watches them with careful eyes, resting her chin on her hand. Viktor would almost say the look is fond.

Viktor frowns. “Why do you say it like that?” He demands. “Why do you say it as if you’re still in love with him?”

She looks at him. The smile on her face just looks sad now. “Flowers might be born from love,” she says. Her tone is gentle as if she’s explaining it to a child, “but love is something kept in your heart.” Her fingers gently trace over the scar down her chest. “The flowers might be gone but that doesn’t mean my feelings have left as well.”

Viktor doesn’t speak. He feels like if he opens his mouth, all that would come out is sputtered exasperations and angry demands. Viktor can’t understand the look on her face, incredibly sad yet undoubtedly fond. As if she misses his father. As if he hadn’t caused roses to choke her, to wrap around her throat like a noose.

She looks at the flowers as if she still loves him—like she’s waiting for him to come back.

He’s not coming back. It’s been almost two years.

At this point, Viktor doesn’t feel like he can even fathom the thoughts rolling around in her head. To even begin to understand what she must be thinking. He shakes his head instead, changing the subject.

“Did you know Word’s is in St. Petersburg this year?” He asks and finally, she gives a genuine smile, laughter bubbling out of her mouth.

“Well, how could I not?” She says with a roll of the eyes. “This is only the thirtieth time you’ve reminded me.”

Viktor smiles, glad to see her lighthearted once more. Nervously, he brushes his hair behind his ear. “You’re coming, right?” He asks. His voice is small. She smiles and reaches out to give his cheek a loving pat before standing up and heading back towards the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she promises.

* * *

In the days following their conversation at the beach, their relationship has become… _confusing_.

On the plus side, Yuuri is no longer avoiding him. In fact, they spend more time together now than ever, spending long days at the rink by themselves perfecting Yuuri's Eros routine and choreographing his free skate. They unwind together in the onsen after practice, before enjoying a hearty dinner made by Mama Hiroko. More often than not, Viktor somehow ends up in Yuuri’s room at the end of the night, sitting on the floor with Makkachin curled in his lap

Yuuri is the first person Viktor sees when he wakes up and the last before he closes his eyes and goes to sleep. It’s wonderful as it is painful. Viktor is in a sweet tortuous hell and he’s the only one to blame for putting himself in this situation.

Yuuri hasn’t mentioned the flowers since, so Viktor hasn’t either. But there are times Viktor can’t help but hope that Yuuri must feel something at least. When Yuuri laughs, mouth open wide and eyes shining, and shoots Viktor such a tender smile that it makes Viktor’s heart stutter to a halt. When he feels petals tickle at his throat and warm him from the inside out at from even just the smallest of Yuuri's gestures.

But it’s also during those moments when Yuuri unexpectedly pulls away. The times when Yuuri realizes what he’s doing because physically flinching back, avoiding Viktor’s eyes and stammering an excuse to leave. Viktor can only nod as the man slips away, heart heavy as he stares at Yuuri’s retreating form.

He tries not to read too much into it. Viktor knows it’s sad but at this point, he’ll take what he can get.

It’s almost sundown now, the late summer sun dipping below the horizon. Viktor’s lounging on the porch outside, dressed in the customary green  _jinbei_  from the inn and enjoying the cool breeze on his flushed skin after his bath. Makkachin is snoozing comfortably in his lap and Viktor runs his hands cathartically through her curls.

Someone joins him on the porch, sitting a couple of feet away from him, the aged wood creaking beneath them. Viktor doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Mari who’s joined him, the smell of cigarettes clinging to her like a second skin.

She flips open her box of Methanol’s and holds it out to him. “Want one?” She asks.

When Viktor declines, she shrugs at him before taking one out for herself, setting it alight with a golden metal lighter. She takes a long, slow drag.

“Where’s Yuuri?” Mari asks.

Viktor scratches behind Makka’s ear, smiling when she snuffles happily in her sleep. “He’s still in the bath.”

Mari hums. “And you’re not with him?”

Viktor shakes his head, damp bangs flopping over his forehead. “I wanted to give him some privacy.”

Mari nods and Viktor thinks a look of approval flashes over her face before she takes another drag.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” He asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

She scoffs. “What makes you think I wanted to talk to you?”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. The two stare at each other for a good moment before Mari looks away, a chuckle escaping her lips.

“You’re a smart one, kid.” Viktor doesn’t bother protesting that he’s only a few years younger than her. To Viktor, Mari’s always felt wiser beyond her years, quiet and calculating. Viktor might be an only child but even he can tell that Mari’s just has this protective sisterly air around her. It must have been nice for Yuuri to grow up with someone like her.

She sighs, a curl of smoke evaporating in the air. “I wanted to apologize,” she eventually says.

Viktor’s eyebrows raise again, this time in confusion. “What for?” He asks.

Mari’s crooked smile looks somewhat sheepish. “I think I had the wrong impression of you when you first arrived,” she tells him. “I treated you unfairly and it’s only right for me to apologize for that.”

Viktor blinks in surprise. While it was true that Mari initially wary of him when he arrived, Viktor couldn’t fault her for her reaction. It wasn’t until later when Viktor thought about his actions that he realized how awful he came off as. To suddenly barge into their lives with his entire life packed in cardboard boxes, staying in their home indefinitely without even asking for permission.

“You shouldn’t feel the need to apologize,” he tells her honestly. He elaborates when a look of surprise washes over her face. “I understand why you wouldn’t be comfortable with how suddenly I arrived. In fact, I should be the one to apologize.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes. Her half-burned cigarette is held limply between her fingers “Let’s just say we were both in the wrong and leave it at that.”

Viktor hides a smile and nods. Mari takes another drag. In her sleep, Makka’s legs jerk and spasm before she rolls around, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

“I was just worried,” Mari eventually says. She’s looking straight out to the distance, where the sun has set almost completely and illuminates the houses on the hillside with a burnt orange glow. The beginnings of stars peek out of the sky, twinkling and glittering high above them.

 _It’s peaceful here,_ he thinks. Viktor’s only ever lived in cities, where it was easy to disappear into the hustle and bustle of the world and get swept away by its energy. In Hasetsu, time moved slowly. Viktor could stop and enjoy the small things, like the ocean waves cresting rhythmically over the beach and the incessant buzz of cicadas singing at sundown. It was nice to simply  _enjoy_ life, to take the time and appreciate his surroundings. Looking back, Viktor feels like he’s never stopped to even just relax, caught up in the frenzy of competitive skating.

“Worried about that?” Viktor asks curiously.

Mari bends over and pulls out an ashtray from beneath the porch, putting out the half-lit cigarette. “Yuuri’s been hurt before,” she simply says. “As his older sister, I don’t want him to go through that kind of pain ever again.”

“I would never hurt Yuuri,” Viktor honestly tells her.

The way she smiles at him, knowing and sad, unnerves him. She looks at him as if she knows better and Viktor feels somewhat unsettled. Before he can question it, the look passes and she lounges backward, face relaxing into a neutral expression.

“To be honest, now I’m more concerned that he’ll hurt you instead.” She glances down at the front of his robe, where the fabric has started to slip and expose his chest. Her eyes linger to where Viktor knows the pale white scar running down his chest is visible, thin but slightly raised. Viktor unconsciously tightens the tie of his robe. He pointedly coughs and she looks away to gaze back out at the view. The sun has set completely now, the sky transformed into a watercolor of inky purples and swirling blues. The moon hangs low in the sky, shining brilliantly like a luminescent paper lantern.

“Just be patient with him,” she advises him, continuing to gaze out into the night sky.“Yuuri might be skittish at times but he has a habit of surprising people. Even I can tell that you two have something special.”

Viktor, whose life has been nothing but surprises after meeting Yuuri, only nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet, too small for Mari to hear. “I hope so too.”

* * *

Mari’s flowers are snapdragons, pink petals bleeding into a yellow center, the edges curled and uneven. Viktor’s horrified the first time they come out. It’s sudden. Unexpected. One moment Viktor is snorting into his sake cup, drinking late into the night with Mari in the dining room, and the next there are flowers on the table between them, traitorously glaring up at him and stark against the dark wood.

Viktor’s at a loss for words. “I-I…”

Mari ignores his stutters, gingerly reaching out to pick one up with her thumb and forefinger. She holds it up to the light, squinting at them as she examines them carefully. Viktor can only watch, completely frozen as a sinking feeling falls deep in his chest.

“Snapdragons, huh?” Mari asks before she places it back down on the table. “Not bad.”

Viktor chokes. “E-excuse me?” He manages to get out.

“Snapdragons are known to grow in rocky areas,” Mari explains, sweeping the flowers into a single pile with the side of her hand. “They’re resilient, so they represent strength. But as they’re also compared to look like a dragon’s head, they’re also said to mean deviousness. They’re a cool flower, yeah?”

Stunned, Viktor can only nod. Mari meets his eyes for the first time since the flowers appearances and shoots him a small smile that’s nothing like her normal lazy smirks, genuine and somewhat shy. Her smile looks exactly like Yuuri's.

“Do you know what hyacinths mean?” She suddenly asks.

“I don’t…”

“They’re used for apologies,” Mari says. “The blossoms mean sincerity while the purple color asks for forgiveness.”

Mari makes her way to her feet, pausing to look down at Viktor. Her gaze is almost affectionate “You’re family now, Viktor,” she tells him. “You don’t have to hide anything from me—from my parents. We’ll accept you for who you are. We always will. You’re my baby brother’s fiancé after all.”

She leaves, throwing a lazy hand over her shoulder in a wave as she disappears down a hallway and into her room. On the tatami mats where she was sitting, there’s a single bell-shaped flower in her place, the violet blossom sweet-smelling and delicate.

* * *

The turning point is China.

As Viktor sits restlessly in the kiss-and-cry with Yuuri, he unconsciously starts to bounce his leg as he waits anxiously for the results to appear on the screen. For once, Yuuri actually looks more composed then he is. His side is pressed flush against Viktor as he quietly hugs an  _onigiri_  plush to his chest. Strands of hair have escaped the stiff gel’s hold and flop over his forehead, perspiration making them cling to his skin. He’s squinting at the screen, nose scrunched as he leans forward to get a better look. Yuuri’s eyeglasses are still tucked safely in the pocket of Viktor’s coat but Viktor can’t bring himself to take them out and hand them to the man. All he can do is drum his fingers restlessly on his thigh, hoping his nervousness isn’t too apparent to the cameras.

Viktor easily knows that Yuuri deserves to be on the podium. After the short program yesterday and his stunning free-skate earlier, Yuuri definitely has proven himself to be one of the top skaters here today. Viktor knows that Yuuri deserves to win. He just hopes that the judges will see that too.

It’s only today that Viktor realizes how lacking he is as a coach. While he can help Yuuri with practice, critique his jumps and give technical suggestions to better his routines, he’s neglected one of the most important aspects of coaching. He and Yakov might have butted heads many times during his skating career but Yakov was always the one there for Viktor during his darkest moments. He’s the one who took him in and guided him until Viktor could finally stand on his own. The one who stood quietly behind him and supported him no matter what.

Viktor should have done the same thing for Yuuri.

He thinks of Yuuri, tears streaming down his face as he begs for Viktor to simply believe in him, the words overpowering the distant cheers echoing throughout the parking garage, and feels his heart clench painfully. He might’ve been motivated to become Yuuri’s coach partly for his own selfish reasons but Yuuri is under his care now and he must take responsibility.

He might’ve failed once, but he won’t let it happen again.

The screen changes to start showcasing Yuuri’s scores and an excited hum rise from the crowd in anticipation. Somehow, Yuuri’s hand finds its way into Viktor’s, ice-cold and trembling. He must have been more nervous than Viktor thought. His face is impassive as he stares up at the screen. Viktor squeezes back comfortingly.

His lips are red, Viktor notices as he watches Yuuri’s focused face, shiny and slightly puffy. Viktor knows his lips must look the same.

Perhaps Viktor shouldn’t have tackled Yuuri on the ice earlier, smashing their lips together so hard that their teeth clacked painfully. Shouldn’t have kissed him in in front of the thousands of people in the stadium as well as thousands more watching at home. But when Yuuri spun into his last pose, arm outreached to Viktor, all he could think about was the overwhelming desire of how he needed to be close, close,  _close_  to Yuuri and how he was much too far away.

It wasn’t until Viktor was staring down at Yuuri from on top of him, seeing Yuuri’s shocked eyes and kiss-bruised lips that he realized that he should’ve waited, should’ve asked if this was okay. But then Yuuri smiled, eyes softening as he reached up to rest his forehead against Viktor’s, and Viktor thinks this is where he’s meant to be.

The numbers start to come out one by one. Technical. Performance. Overall. Combined. They come out too fast for Viktor to process as the crowd becomes almost deafening. Viktor watches with baited breath as Yuuri’s name shoots up the leaderboard before only stopping below Phichit’s by less than five points. Second place.

Viktor lets out a breath, only to have the wind knocked out of him when Yuuri practically throws himself in Viktor’s arm. He hides his face in the crook of Viktor’s neck, his entire form shaking. Viktor feels his skin dampen with sticky hot tears as Yuuri clutches him impossibly tight.

Smiling fondly, Viktor circles his arms around Yuuri, squeezing his shoulders firmly. “You did well,” he whispers into his ear and Yuuri’s grip tightens even more.

When Yuuri finally pulls away, eyes puffy and red, snot running down his face and lips twitched into a quivering smile, Viktor thinks he’s the most beautiful person in the world.

* * *

The closest thing Victor’s experienced to  _Tanabata_  would probably be the Christmas night markets he would visit with his mother when he was younger. He remembers being bundled up in his thickest winter jacket and clutching her hand tightly as she led him through the bustling crowd. He thinks of twinkling Christmas lights and upbeat holiday carols and warm cider trickling down his throat. Of his mother picking him up to hug him to her chest when he got too tired of walking and being lulled to sleep by her comforting heartbeat as snow blanketed the city streets.

The night markets are nice, the fond memory syrupy in his mind, but it doesn’t come close to the liveliness of the local Hasetsu festival.

The path to the shrine is lined with street vendors and market stalls, decorated with the same types of ornaments he helped the Katsuki family decorated the inn with the previous week. Pretty paper lanterns. Streamers of all colors. Ornate fans with hand-painted designs. People of all ages are milling about, some in  _yukatas_  while others in casual summer clothes. Their casual conversations rise above the distant thumps of  _taiko_ drums, the sound slow but constant. By the water, a long line of fishing boats with fluttery lanterns hanging off the ship masts keeps a glowing garden of paper lanterns near the shore, a floating golden shimmering sea. On the beach, Victor can see children in colorful yukatas chasing each other with sparklers, laughing and smiling.

It’s nothing Viktor’s ever experienced before. It’s absolutely  _wonderful_.

Victor’s so awestruck that he doesn’t notice Yuuri slip away to a nearby food vendor until he’s pressing a paper food tray of something warm into his hands.

“It’s  _takoyak_ i,” Yuuri explains. “They’re octopus dumplings.”

Victor takes one of the sticks, which has three golden brown dumplings skewered through drenched in a variety of sauces, and pops one in his mouth. His eyes go wide as the explosion of gooey, delicious flavor fills his mouth.

“ _Vkusno_!” He exclaims through a mouthful, eyes twinkling with delight. Yuuri laughs in agreement and takes a stick for himself.

“I know, right?!” Yuuri says and in a sudden fit of confidence, loops his arms through Viktor’s and tugs him further into the festival streets.

They’re in the middle of preparing for the upcoming skate season, focused on honing and perfecting Yuuri’s programs for the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship coming up. It’s been endless days of skating and training and exercising and planning and the two of them haven’t had any true leisure time since Yurio left. Their rest days amount to nothing more than sleeping in till noon and lounging around the house.

So when Yuuri shyly approached him to ask if he wanted to attend the festival with him, Viktor couldn’t do anything but agree.

Perhaps it’s the summer night that’s getting to them, a pair of rosy-colored glasses slid over their eyes that makes everything seem brighter and livelier. Or maybe it’s the entire bottle of sake they shared at the inn before leaving for the evening, the sweet rice wine sliding down Viktor's throat to settle comfortably in his stomach, warm and relaxing. But Yuuri seems different tonight, loose-limbed and giggling. He’s not holding onto Viktor’s arm as much as he is hugging it as he points out various things of interest.  Yuuri always like to put some sort of distance between them. He wasn’t  _distant_ , per say, but there was always something between them. It was like an impenetrable wall that Viktor couldn’t see but felt all the same. But tonight, he has no reservations at all. He keeps Viktor close, and Viktor feels his entire side burn from where Yuuri is brushing up against him.

 “Come on, coach!” Yuuri laughs, pulling at Viktor when he pauses to admire an impressive stall of hand-painted masks. “My diet is canceled for today and we’re going to try at least one of everything!”

Yuuri is giggling when he pulls Viktor towards a nearby food stall. He orders a dish from each vendor they come across from and explains what each one is to an excited Victor. His favorite so far is the chocolate-and-creme filled  _taiyaki_ and the fried potato croquettes drizzled in a sticky sweet  _tonkatsu_  sauce. However, the best part by far was watching Yuuri lick the excess sauce off his fingers before beaming up at Victor, absolutely delighted.

It’s a side of Yuuri he rarely gets to see; open and excited while he drags him along the festival streets, recounting childhood stories along the way. Yuuri buys them both matching cartoon bear masks based off a Japanese kid’s show and Victor repays him by winning a set of phone charms of a sparkly-eyed tuna fish. Yuuri loops it around his phone immediately and Victor does the same.

The sun has completely gone down by the time they reach the shrine entrance. As Yuuri leads him up the stone steps, the crowd starts to thin and the two of them no longer need to shout in order to hear each other.

“Yuuri, where are we going now?” Victor asks as they reach a small roofed shelter with some type of water basin. Yuuri grabs one of the wooden scoops and begins to carefully wash his hands before rinsing the inside of his mouth. Victor dutifully follows his example.

“We’re going to visit the main shrine and write down our wishes,” Yuuri tells him once Victor’s done washing his mouth. “They set up bamboo trees near the main shrine so the whole town leaves their wishes there.”

The two of them walk through a small gate and enter a large courtyard surrounded by massive trees strung with lights and decorations. In the center of the courtyard are almost two dozen potted bamboo trees with small colorful strips of paper hanging from the branches. Yuuri leads them to one of the side buildings where there’s a small station with unused paper and pencils.

“These are  _tanzaku_ ,” Yuuri explains as he grabs a baby blue piece of paper. Victor grabs a bright pink one for himself, ignoring Yuuri’s exasperated eye roll as he does so. “You write down your wish and hang it on the bamboo tree. They say that because bamboo grows straight and tall, the wishes will one day be able to reach the heavens and the gods will be able to grant them.”

Victor purses his lip as he stares down at the blank piece of paper. Beside him, Yuuri has already signed his name in neat kanji and is in the process of looping a ribbon through the top.

“Yuuri,” Victor whines. “I don’t know what to write.”

Yuuri chuckles. “You can write anything.  _Tanabata_  only comes around once a year so the whole point is to wish for whatever your heart wants.”

Victor’s heart has been filled with nothing but Yuuri these past few months.

“Well then, what did you write?” Victor acts, curiously peering over Yuuri’s shoulder. The straight lines of kanji are incomprehensible to him and he furrows his brow as he studies the neat writing.

Yuuri smiles down at his _tanzaku_. “I didn’t write a wish.”

“Yuuri!” Victor gasps. “You just said the whole point was to wish to your heart’s content and you didn’t even write one! Why don’t you wish for your skating or something?”

Yuuri shakes his head with a surprisingly determined face. "I wouldn't sit well with me if I wished for that. If I win, I want it to be through my own power and not because I relied on this.”

Viktor takes in Yuuri’s explanation, a smile slowly settling on his face. It's such a Yuuri thing to be steadfast in his convinctions and only want to rely on himself. Viktor is once again in awe of the man's determination. 

Yuuri smiles down at his paper. “If you’re that curious, I wrote my thanks.”

“Your thanks?”

Yuuri nods, gently tracing his words with a finger. “These past few months, everything’s seemed too good to be true—almost like a dream. It didn’t seem fair to ask for more since I’ve received so much already. I wanted to express how thankful I am for everything that’s been given to me.”

Victor nods slowly at Yuuri’s words, an idea forming in his head, and carefully writes on his own paper.

“Hey! That’s not fair, you wrote in Russian!” Yuuri exclaims once he sees Victor’s  _tanzaku._

“Well. you wrote in Japanese,” Victor shot back.

“Only because we’re in Japan,” Yuuri mutters and Victor pretends not to hear him as he happily heads toward one of the bamboo trees. Victor carefully ties his paper onto one of the less crowded branches and Yuuri follows suit, tying his directly next to Viktor’s.

 “I told you what I wrote so it’s only fair that you tell me what you wrote,” Yuuri says.

Victor grins, winking coquettishly at him. “Can’t. It’s a secret.”

In neat Cyrillic, on a bright pink strip of paper, Victor gives thanks to whoever made it possible that he now has Yuuri in his life.

* * *

The waiting is torturous.

Viktor is in the waiting area outside the plane gate, sitting in an uncomfortably hard plastic chair, hunched forward so his elbows are resting on his thighs. Makkachin is sitting obediently in front of him, ears raised high and tail wagging lazily.

It’s late at night—almost two am. The airport is surprisingly full at this time, various stragglers milling around. Perhaps that’s why Viktor is so hypersensitive right now, whipping his head around the moment he sees someone in the corner of his eye.

After another uncomfortable moment of eye contact with a weary traveler, Viktor sighs and slumps back into his seat. Makkachin scoots forward until she’s resting in between his legs, face snuggled into his lap. Viktor smiles thankfully down at her as he cups her face with both hands and rubs at her ears until she lets out a pleased snuffle.

Viktor’s grateful he was able to go back to Hasetsu to be with Makka. Viktor doesn’t like to admit it but she’s old. No matter how energetic and spry she is, it’s an unavoidable fact. His time with her is limited and while Viktor’s been expecting to part with her eventually, the phone call from Mari was a striking reminder that she doesn’t have long left on this earth.

Luckily, Makkachin made a quick recovery, perking back up to her sprightly self in no time. But then a new problem arose. Viktor was thousands of miles away from Yuuri, back in in the quiet town of Hasetsu while Yuuri was gearing up for his free skate in Moscow. There wasn’t much Viktor could do except watch the shoddy live stream with the Katsuki family, praying that Yakov would take care of him.

It was painful to watch every flubbed jump and missed cue. He doesn’t notice his hold on Makka become almost constricting until she’s whining to be released and Viktor lets her go in surprise. He ends up gripping his own hands tightly, his blunt fingernails leaving reddened half crescents into his skin.

When the final score comes out, he sags in relief.

He made it by the skin of his teeth, barely edging out Michele Crispino from Italy with a fourth-place finish. He’s qualified for the Grand Prix Final.

They’ve only been apart for a few days at this point but there’s an itch underneath Viktor’s skin, distracting and all-consuming. He’s antsy, hands fidgeting aimlessly. He wants to be with Yuuri—to be able to touch him and to see that he's okay with his own eyes—and he can’t focus until he does.

Makkachin suddenly leaves Viktor’s side, padding softly to the glass windows and rising up to her hind legs to rest her paws on the glass. Viktor looks up and is met by Yuuri’s wide eyes, his bright blue surgical mask doing nothing to hide his expression of shock.

Viktor doesn’t know who moves first. Perhaps it’s him. Perhaps it’s Yuuri. Or perhaps it’s even Makkachin. But next thing Viktor knows, they’re running, side by side with only the glass divider between them. Viktor can’t tear his eyes away, taking in Yuuri’s windswept dark hair and the familiar lines of his face. Yuuri does the same as they run. His eyes are boring directly into Viktor’s as they run towards the exit

It takes a few moments for the glass doors to open, Yuuri impatiently stamping his feet as they slide apart. Viktor opens his arms, hands outstretched widely as Yuuri flies across the distance between them and lands solidly in Viktor’s embrace to hold him tightly. Viktor immediately sags against him, reveling in his touch as he tightens his grip even further.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s hair. Viktor is aware they’re attracting a lot of attention. He can feel people nearby stop to stare at them. But the last thing he wants to do is to let go so instead, he ignores them, clutching desperately at Yuuri and breathing in his scent.

“Viktor,” Yuuri sighs against his shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about what I should do as your coach,” he says in a low voice. It’s all he’s been doing recently as he awaited Yuuri’s return. This is the second time Viktor’s failed as a coach—left Yuuri to struggle by himself while helpless to do anything. How can Viktor call himself a good coach if he can’t even take care of Yuuri when he needs it the most?

“I’ve been thinking too…” Yuuri responds. Suddenly, he’s straightening up. He places both his hands on Viktor’s shoulders and pushes him back so they’re staring directly at each other. There’s a look of unwavering determination on Yuuri’s face.

“Please be my coach until I retire!”

Viktor blinks once, and then twice, before letting out a breath of a laugh, smile curling fondly. He takes one of Yuuri’s hands off his shoulder and cups its gently, bringing it to his lips to brush the softest of kisses across his knuckles.

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Viktor says. The blush feels hot on his cheeks but Yuuri’s sudden intake of breath, eyes going glassy, is enough for Viktor to forget his embarrassment. Yuuri suddenly surges forward, his grip around Viktor almost suffocating. It’s grounding. It makes Viktor feel alive.

“I wish you’d never retire,” he admits softly. He wants this—these small quiet moments with Yuuri— forever. Wants to experience them together for the rest of his life. He’s never yearned for something so strongly before—never wanted to hold on to someone so tightly and never let go. Viktor might have dozens of gold medals but Yuuri is the most precious treasure out of them all.

He feels Yuuri stiffen momentarily before his shoulders relax. His next words are shaky and warbled, voice choked up in his throat. Viktor can barely make them out from where they’re mumbled into Viktor’s shoulder.

“Let’s win gold at the Grand Prix Final.”

Viktor doesn’t understand why he says it like a goodbye.

* * *

“After the final, let’s end this.”

There’s a ring on Viktor’s right hand, gold and glittering against his pale skin. There’s a matching one on Yuuri’s hand as well, lovely against Yuuri’s warmer skin tone. He’s sitting in front of Viktor on the edge of the hotel bed, hands clutched into trembling fists and resting on his thighs. Viktor, fresh out of the shower and sitting on the window sill, can only stare at him in mind-numbing shock.

“Is…there something unsatisfactory about my coaching?” The words feel awkward and stilted on his tongue. He knows it’s not about his coaching. While Viktor’s definitely made mistakes before, Yuuri and him have finally settled into a comfortable rhythm. Viktor doesn’t want to sound presumptuous but they work well together, feeding off each other’s energy and pushing each other to do their best.

 _“Please be my coach until I retire._ ” Yuuri had told him. At the time, Viktor’s heart soared at the words. Now, he feels like there was a double meaning to his words.

There’s an alternative to what Yuuri could be telling him with those words. Not about his coaching but about something else. But that option is too much for Viktor consider, already feeling panic welling in his chest, expanding like a balloon.

“There’s nothing wrong with your coaching.” Yuuri’s head is bowed. He refuses to even look at him. “I’ve…been thinking about retiring for a while. Even before you became my coach.”

“Then what are you saying?” Viktor asks, voice borderline hysterical. It’s hard to breathe, hard to focus—hard to do anything really. All he’s aware of his heart pounding like a drum, resonating in his ears to an almost deafening level. Yuuri’s expertly avoiding his gaze. He sees him grip the phone in his hand a little tighter and his ring catches the light, glinting prettily. Viktor feels like he's going crazy.

Yuuri’s next words are the final killing blow.

“Let’s end this. Let’s end us.”

Viktor doesn’t register his tears until they’re already falling. They splatter messily down his cheeks to the front of the robe, warm on his overheated skin. He feels Yuuri lean in to brush his bangs away from his face.

“Are you crying?” He sounds surprised.

Viktor irritably swats his hand away. “Of course I am!” He snaps.

“B-but why?” Yuuri looks genuinely confused. Viktor would laugh at the absolute absurdity of his question if his heart wasn’t already wrenching painfully in his chest.

He feels exasperated. “What do you mean  _why_?” Viktor asks. “I’m mad!  How can you say something like that?”

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Yuuri was standing with him on the cathedral steps, the church lights making his eyes glow amber as he slips something small and golden onto Viktor’s ring finger with trembling hands.

At least Yuuri looks just as troubled as Viktor feels. His lower lip is suspiciously wobbly and his eyes are glassy behind his rectangular frames. Viktor doesn’t think he could handle it if Yuuri was uncaring at the whole situation. He’s positive he would break.

“I-it’s inevitable, d-don’t you think?” Yuuri sounds like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Viktor. He keeps blinking, long and hard, and his eyelashes cast long dark shadows over his cheeks.

Viktor’s blood runs cold. “Inevitable?” The word is icy on his tongue, stinging and bitingly sharp. Yuuri flinches back. “Are you telling me that these past few months have meant nothing you to? That you were just waiting for it to end?”

“Of course not!” Yuuri bursts out. He’s twitchy, fidgeting anxiously on the edge of the bed. Viktor blinks at the sudden yell. “The time I’ve spent with you is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life!”

“Then what is the problem?” Viktor almost feels like groaning. He can’t understand what Yuuri’s thinking. His mind is like a puzzle that Viktor doesn’t have all the pieces to and all he can do is squint at the half-finished picture in hopes of finally understanding him.

“The problem that this isn’t going to last!” Yuuri yells. “It’s better to end it now before anyone gets hurt!”

“Before anyone gets hurt?” Viktor scoffs incredulously. “Do you think that I won’t be hurt by this? That  _we_  wouldn’t be hurt by this?”

Viktor’s chest feels tight. There’s something almost like an itch in his lungs that he desperately wants to scratch but just can’t reach. “I love you, Yuuri,” he finally says. He’s never said these words out loud—never felt he needed to. He thought that the flowers spoke volumes enough, felt that actions spoke louder than words. Viktor felt like he could scour dictionaries for hours—in Russian, in English, in Japanese— and never find the right words to describe the breadth of his feelings. He must not have expressed himself clearly as he thought because Yuuri is staring up at him in shock, mouth slightly agape.

“I love you,” Viktor repeats firmly. “I thought my actions were enough to show you but I guess not and that’s my fault. But I love you, Yuuri. I love you so,  _so_  much. Don’t’ you feel the same?”

Viktor always thought Yuuri eventually returned his feelings after all their time together. While the Japanese man is quiet and reserved in terms of expressing emotion, it’s the little moments that Viktor always counted. When Yuuri lets Viktor rest his hand in his lap, gently stroking through his hair to lull Viktor to sleep. When Yuuri pushes their hotel beds together in the middle of the night in an effort to get closer, burrowing into Viktor’s side until daybreak. It’s Yuuri holding his hand underneath the  _kotatsu_  as they enjoy a home-cooked meal with Yuuri’s family, smiling at Viktor as if he belonged there all along.

The ring feels heavy on his finger, the cool metal digging into the flesh of his palm. This ring is also Yuuri’s love, isn’t it? At least, that’s what Viktor felt when Yuuri asked him to stay close, whispering promises softly into the night.

Yet, Yuuri hesitates at the question. He looks troubled, mouth opening and closing uselessly. “I-I—“

“You feel the same, don’t you?” Viktor asks, almost desperately.

Yuuri still looks shell-shocked. “I-I can’t love you,” he finally forces out. He looks pained to say it, wincing at the words that escape his mouth.

Viktor presses his lips into a thin line. “You can’t or you don’t?” Viktor asks almost accusatorily.

Yuuri thickly swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. “I-I can’t,” he says. “I can’t love you. I can’t love anyone. I’ve told you this before, Viktor. There’s no hope for us. You could do so much better than me and I can’t live myself when I know I’m only holding you back. You can go back to skating. Find someone else who can love you and—” he swallows thickly, a look of sorrow overtaking his features “—a-and forget about me.”

Suddenly, Yuuri’s intentions finally start to make sense. Yuuri never brought up the fact he didn’t have flowers after the first revelation so neither did Viktor. He wanted to be respectful of Yuuri’s boundaries and simply followed his lead, always letting Yuuri set the pace. But looking at Yuuri now, eyes teary and shaking terribly, he thinks that perhaps he should’ve pushed it. Should’ve asked about it despite how uncomfortable he knew Yuuri would feel.

Has Yuuri had the chance to talk out his feelings with anyone? Viktor doubts it. Viktor knows the ache the surgery leaves, how empty your chest feels as you try to reconnect your memories with feelings no longer there. Viktor can only imagine what Yuuri must have felt, waking up with empty lungs and the knowledge they’ll stay like that forever— the flowers only a distant memory. It sounds awful. Yuuri’s probably kept his pain bottled up for so long, unwilling to reach out for help and suffering because of it.

“Do you think you can’t love, Yuuri? Think you can’t love me?” Viktor asks softly. Yuuri jerks back as if he’d been burned.

Yuuri shakes his head frantically. “I know I can’t,” he firmly insists. “I don’t have flowers, Viktor. How can I love like this?”

Victor traces the line down the center of his chest, following a path where a long-healed scar resides.  “These flowers aren’t love, Yuuri,” he says. He remembers what his mother told him long ago, when she gazed adoringly at a vase of long-stemmed roses despite all the pain it’s caused her. He didn’t understand it then but he finally understands now. Understood what she meant when feelings don’t just disappear. “You don’t have to have flowers to love someone, Yuuri.”

Hope flashes briefly across Yuuri’s face before his face falls and he glances doubtfully off to the side. Viktor sighs, and tries again.

“What about Phichit? Of Yuuko and Minako? Of your family?” Are you saying you don’t love them? That you don’t feel anything for them?” Viktor prods.

Yuuri looks scandalized. “I—well, of course not!” He manages to sputter out.

Viktor nods at his answer. “Well, what makes us different then?”

Yuuri hesitates. “I-it just is.” He reverts back to avoiding Viktor’s gaze.

Viktor is starting to feel irritated, shifting his weight and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What do you mean by that?”

Yuuri flounders to answer. “It’s  _different_ , Viktor. It just is—“

Viktor is unaware he’s starting to raise his voice, his yell echoing throughout their hotel room. Frustration starts to override the calm, rational part of his mind. All he wants are answers but Yuuri is still frustratingly avoiding his questions. “Talk to me, Yuuri! You can’t just decide everything for yourself and keep me in the dark. I deserve to know!“

Yuuri doesn’t respond. He’s gone back to fiddling his thumbs, face bowed. Viktor let out an exasperated huff.

“Tell me, Yuuri! What makes this different? What makes you so afraid to love me?” He demands. “Yuuri, why—“

“Because they’re not the reason why I don’t have flowers in the first place!”

Silence. Yuuri’s shoulders are heaving from the force of his yell, frantic pants escaping from his dry lips. He looks horrified, unable to believe at what he just confessed.

 “W-what?” Viktor finally gasps out, voice dropping into a hushed whisper. Everything is fuzzy, the admission buzzing in his ears, distorted and overpowering. Yuuri looks remorseful, looking down at his hands twisting in his lap.

“I—I didn’t want you to find out this way—I didn’t want you to find out  _at all_.” He’s panic-stricken, pupils blown and quivering. Viktor recognizes the beginning of an anxiety attack—had researched on what to do after Yuuri trusted him enough to tell him he struggled with them—but he can’t do anything to comfort him. He’s too focused on his own inner turmoil now. He’s barely holding himself together at this point, shoulders shaking imperceptibly.

“Yuuri.”

Viktor’s voice snaps Yuuri back into reality. He’s near tears, Viktor notices. He is too. The flowers have suddenly turned to lead in his chest, weighing him down and making it nearly impossible to breathe. “Was it me, Yuuri? Am I the reason why—“

Viktor suddenly stops, choking on his own words.

Yuuri shakes his head frantically, dark hair flying around him. “It’s not your fault!  _I_  was the one who—“

“Yuuri.” Viktor just feels so,  _so_  tired. It’s late, almost midnight now. They have the free skate tomorrow, a long day of competition and press and interviews. Of people watching their every move wanting to know if Yuuri can take gold. If  _Viktor_  can help Yuuri achieve gold and place him on top of the podium where he deserves to be.

He’s not sure if he’ll be able to do that anymore. “Please—just tell me. Was it me, all those years ago? Am I the reason why you can never have flowers anymore?” Viktor is pleading to him now but he’s not sure if he even can handle the answer at this point. His heart is thudding frantically in his chest. He feels suffocated by the flowers encroaching on his throat.

“I…” Yuuri closes his eyes to breathe in deeply, chest visibly rising. When he opens his eyes, they’re dark and clear and unbearably sad. “Yes,” He breathes out. Viktor’s heart stills as it plummets to the bottom of his chest. “It was you. It’s been you all along, Viktor. You were the reason why I can’t love anymore.”

Viktor’s heart, held precariously together by only a few strands, finally breaks.

* * *

Yakov is the one who finally forces him to go home.

It’s been two weeks since World’s—two weeks since Viktor’s proved himself as a champion and tasted victory that felt so,  _so_  hollow. It’s the offseason now, yet it doesn’t feel much different than normal. Viktor is still going to the rink every day, carving deep lines into the ice with his jump and spins. He knows the attention and pressure put on him for the upcoming season will be intense so he’s already preparing. All his free time is spent searching online music for new programs and brainstorming the beginnings of choreography. It’s fine—like this, working on his skating. It’s not like Viktor spends his time doing much else.

Yakov, however, doesn’t agree.

“Vitya,” Yakov sighs when he arrives at the rink to find Viktor already on the ice, spinning dizzily with silver hair whipping around him. “Go home.”

Viktor frowns, slowing to a stop and frowning at Yakov. He cocks a hip and places a hand on his waist.

“I just got here,” he argues. Technically, he’s been here for almost an hour but Yakov doesn’t need to know that.

Yakov shakes his head, breathing deeply out of his nose. “Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t even be here in the first place. Go home—and I don’t mean back to the dorms.”

Viktor winces at the reminder, crossing his arms in front of the chest. While Viktor lives in the skater dorms during most of the year, he normally stays at home for the latter half of spring and most of the summer. He doesn’t live too far from his home rink—only a forty-five-minute bus ride away, and there’s a small ice rink in his hometown that lets him use their facilities for a discounted fee so he doesn’t get out of practice. He travels to St. Petersburg twice a week to work with Yakov but he’s old enough to manage and practice on his own.

It’s the first year he didn’t immediately go home to visit his mother. He sent her a text, giving her a half-hearted excuse that he was helping out with the novice training camp this summer and couldn’t make it back home. It was nice to be apart from her, the residual anger still lingering in his mind. But as time went on, Viktor felt more and more guilty about his absence.

His mother told him the best part of her year was when he came home again and truly, it was for the same as Viktor. Most of the anger has faded now and all Viktor wants to do is to talk to her. To understand what she’s thinking so he can make sense of her actions. It’s just pride that refuses to allow Viktor to return home, along with embarrassment at how petty he’s been acting. He doesn’t know how to face her now so he’s taken the easy way out and just avoided her altogether.

“I…” Awkwardly, Viktor scuffs at the ice with his toe pick, uncaring of how the Zamboni guy will definitely give him a stern warning about the deep grooves he’s carving into the ice later on.

Exasperatedly, Yakov sighs. He gestures to the exit with one of his gloved hands. “I’m sure she will be very happy to see you when you arrive. Don’t think too much about it and go.”

Viktor flinches. Yakov’s always had a sixth-sense of understanding exactly what was going on through Viktor's head. It unnerves him, at times.

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks hesitantly. He picks at his fingerless gloves, letting the tight fabric snap over his wrist with his relentless fidgeting.  Yakov gives a gruff chuckle, shaking his head.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” Yakov tells him as he turns and heads towards his office. “I don’t want to see you until next week.”

An hour later, Viktor is boarding the bus with a duffle bag and Makkachin secured in her bright pink harness. He sits at the back of the bus, Makka curled at his feet and watches the scenery flash by through the window. The cityscape transforms the longer he looks. The tall imposing skyscrapers turn into modest two-story buildings and eventually, into the old familiar houses of Viktor’s childhood. They pass by his old elementary school and Viktor smiles, nostalgia washing over him.

They get off at the next stop, Viktor gently rousing Makkachin awake before exiting through the back of the bus. They walk side by side on the cracked pavement, going down the neighborhood street. His house is at the end of the cul-de-sac, one story and painted a soft baby blue. Viktor smiles at it comes into view, taking in the familiar sloped ceiling and large hydrangea bushes in the front. Makkachin must recognize the house too because she suddenly barks, speeding up and excitedly tugging at her leash.

“Slow down, girl,” Viktor laughs but he joins her, half-jogging up the driveway and to the front door. He digs his keys out of his pocket. Makkachin is practically vibrating at his side, tail wagging so fast it’s practically a blur.

“I know, I know. Just give me a second,” he tells her. She boofs impatiently one more time.

Viktor finally manages to extricate his keys from his tight jeans. He singles out the golden key on the key ring before sticking it into the lock.

It doesn’t fit.

Frowning, Viktor tries again but the key only manages to slide halfway into the hole before getting stuck. He tries jiggling it, forcing it in, but it stubbornly won’t fit inside.

“Did she change the lock?” Viktor asks outloud but even that seems improbable to Viktor. There’s a deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and Viktor struggles to quash it down as he tries to think rationally.

He tries knocking but there’s no response. Their old beat up minivan isn’t in the driveway either.  Looking down at Makka, who’s still wagging her tail with her pink tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, he gives a wry smile.

“I guess we’ll have to take the hard way,” he tells her before jumping off the porch and walking to one of the front windows. His house is old, with drafty vents and shingles that like to fly off and decorate the neighborhood with the slightest breeze. One of the front windows has an old rusted lock and Viktor should be able to jiggle the lock free and enter from there if he hasn’t lost his touch.

With a hand each on the side and the top, he carefully shakes the window up and down, pressing his ear towards the glass to listen at the lock jiggling in place. There’s a small click and Viktor smiles before triumphantly sliding it open.

“Come on,” he tells Makka as he kneels down. She eagerly bounds towards him and Viktor holds her protectively to his chest before straightening up and carefully placing her inside the house. His bag follows next before he’s swinging his legs over to the inside and carefully stepping down onto the wooden floor. He dusts the seat of his jeans roughly before looking up.

It’s empty.

It’s not just that there’s no one in the house but the inside is truly,  _completely_  empty. Nothing but bare white walls and dusty wooden floors.  It’s like no one has lived here in weeks—months perhaps. Makkachin is delighted by the free space, running up and down the halls and sniffing around the empty rooms. Viktor is not. He’s horrified, walking slowly through the house with disbelieving eyes. He keeps blinking, hoping that this is all just some vivid hallucination and everything is actually here.

But it doesn’t change. The house is empty and no one is here.

As if a fire had been lit underneath him, Viktor reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He opens his contacts and clicks on the first person on the list, pressing the phone tightly to his ear.

_Calling Ana Nikiforov…_

It doesn’t even ring once before an automated message begins to play.

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

There’s panic building up in his chest, a mounting horror that’s taking over his entire body. His hands are trembling when he tries once again.

“ _I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

When was the last time he talked to her? At World’s? That was nearly three weeks ago. He sent her a text, but did that even send? Viktor closed the messaging app the moment he sent it and refused to look at it since. She didn’t respond. He assumed it was because she didn’t want to talk to him but the more he thinks about it, the more troubled he becomes. Did it even reach her in the first place? Was she even able to read his message?

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

Makkachin must realize something is wrong because she slowly makes her way to Viktor’s side, winding around his legs and nosing at his free hand. He ignores her.

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

Surely, there’s a good reason for all this? But the longer Viktor thinks, there could be no logical explanation for what’s happening. What could justify this? Viktor’s childhood home suddenly empty? his mother nowhere in sight? Viktor can’t think of a single reason that would make sense.

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. He’s almost hyperventilating now, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the force of his shaking. He’s holding his phone so tight he’s surprised the metal isn’t warped from his bruising grip.

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

He thinks of his mother. Of the last time they talked. There was no indication that anything was wrong—that she was planning on moving or something similar. But for the past year, Viktor’s always known that something wasn’t quite right, hadn’t he? She was never quite the same after her surgery, quieter and almost scatter-brained, forgetting the simplest things and easily falling into long lapses of silence. Viktor dismissed it as something temporary, a side effect from the taxing surgery. Was he wrong to do so? Were there warning signs? Something he missed?

His brain is going a mile-a-minute and he’s feeling lightheaded from the thoughts whirring in his brain, painfully going through all his memories and deconstructing them to give the slightest hint or explanation for what’s happening.

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”_

Did she leave because of Viktor?

_“I’m sorry—the number you have dialed is—“_

Is this his fault? Is he the one to blame for all this?

_“I’m sorry—the number you have—“_

_“I’m sorry—the number—“_

_“I’m sorry—“_

_“I’m—“_

Viktor finally lets out a sob, guttural and heart-wrenching as he sinks down to his knees. Makkachin immediately swarms to him in concern, licking at his tears and flushed skin. He wraps around her, hugging her tight into his chest and stifling his cries in her soft curls.

It’s unavoidable. He can’t deny it any longer. She’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with really cute fluff at the beginning and heart-wrenching pain at the end. I'm very sorry, I don't know why I keep doing this.
> 
> EDIT: Big thanks for someone pm'ing about a part of a scene that I didn't finish rewriting so it was just some very strange disconnected dialogue LOL
> 
> I ended up cutting this last part into two because it was just getting so long and it's taking me so long to write. I'm not sure when the final part will come out (I'm super busy with school and work rip) but I promise that I'm definitely going to finish this as soon as I can
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter! I really struggled with writing a few of the heavier scenes so I'd love to get your opinions about them
> 
> Thanks again for all your kudos and comments! I appreciate every single one of them :)
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr [@pockybugi](http://pockybugi.tumblr.com/)!


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